


I Am the Fire

by Jejunus (JejuneSins)



Series: Learnin' the Blues [5]
Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Drugs, F/M, Minor Character Death, Physical Disability, Psychological Trauma, Serious Injuries, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-07-28 19:25:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 43,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16248245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JejuneSins/pseuds/Jejunus
Summary: Safely home in the Mojave once more, Joan sets about the task of healing and moving forward so that she can finally bear the fruits of her labor in the New England Commonwealth: the creation of the Synthetic People. Unfortunately not everyone is pleased with her actions; Joan is forced to confront the fact that she’s made a few more enemies than friends over the years. Everything comes to a head in the city of New Vegas as she must also reconcile the man who has influenced so much of her life with the person he has become—Joshua Graham.Everything will change, in just one look, one little glance—it’s not passing fascination now.





	1. Blue Moon

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the amazing @Bubastisboo (https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bubastisboo/works). Thank you so much for your help and encouragement <3

Chapter 1: Blue Moon

_You saw me standin' alone, without a dream in my heart, without a love of my own—you knew just what I was there for, you heard me sayin' a prayer for someone I really could care for_

        Joan jostled, feeling a rushing bumpiness beneath her before blinking rapidly and looking up. The sun was low against the horizon and she could see the first pale dots of stars speckling the sky. She jerked and looked around, expecting to see a cart full of Legionaries.

        “We’re just about to Hoover Dam, Ma’am,” Yes Man said above her. She blinked and focused on him, willing her heartbeat to return to normal. She clenched her hands around her belly, her stomach miserable and tight.

        “Please hurry.”

        They continued their brutal pace through the rocky hills and ledges that led back to the Mojave and Joan pressed her eyes closed for the short remainder of the journey. Med-X still coursed through her body, blunting the worst of the pain in her legs. She was too exhausted to speak further and just tried to relax and enjoy the safe rocking sensation of being cradled in Yes Man’s arms as he carried her home.

        A while later she opened her eyes, sensing that they were slowing. Hoover Dam. It had been two years. She thrust her arm out, reaching for the tall pale buildings that studded the top of the structure.

        “Happy to be home, Ma’am?” Yes Man asked her jauntily. She was about to answer him when the doors of one of the buildings flew open and Arcade, Cass, and Boone dashed out, stampeding toward her. Her eyes flew open wide and a hard lump formed in her throat as she clawed out harder, straining her arm.

        “Oh my fucking God,” Cass said sharply, skidding up to them with enough force that her rawhide hat flew nearly off her red hair. Boone stared at her with silent and drawn horror. Neither looked like they had slept in days.

        “ _Holy shit_ ,” Arcade said under his breath. He had large dark bags under his eyes. He immediately lifted Joan out of Yes Man’s arms and she sagged against him, whimpering with pain.

        “We need to get you to the Followers,” he said, carrying her quickly inside the building they had just exited. “Julie knows that you’ve returned, but… Christ—”

        “ _Your feet_ ,” Cass said, staring down at them. Joan winced.

        “I’m fine,” she said raggedly.

        “Bullshit you are,” Cass replied bluntly, still gawking at her pulpy mangled toes. She finally tore her eyes away and looked up at Joan’s face.

        “Well shit. At least you’re alive. When we got the message that you were in Legion territory and that they were searching for you… we didn’t have much fuckin’ hope, to be honest,” Cass continued, following Arcade as he laid Joan down on a stretcher in the small dimly lit room.

        “You’re as thin as a damn scarecrow,” Arcade said, running his fingers through his short blond hair before composing himself. “I guess they didn’t give you the five-star treatment,” he continued wryly.

        “Oh yeah,” Joan snorted. “It was real fancy. I got my own cell and everything. And personal entertainment with Vulpes Inculta himself.”

        The three around her gasped. Boone was staring at her legs and it made her uncomfortable. She wanted desperately to lighten the mood and fought the urge to curse them for the looks of horror on their faces.

        “Here,” Arcade interjected, lifting one end of her stretcher and gesturing for Boone to take the other. She smiled at him gratefully. They hoisted her up and carried her out of the opposite end of the small building, past a small array of computer terminals.

        “We’ve got a brahmin cart set up to take you back to Vegas. Julie has a room ready and waiting for you at the Old Mormon Fort,” Arcade said, letting go of one of the stretcher legs and pushing the door open.

        “Can I have more Med-X?” Joan asked him. He craned his head back to look at her, suspicion on his face.

        “How much have you had?”

        “Barely any.”

        “I’ll take that to mean that you’ve had too much. You’re too thin, I’m not giving you any more until Julie and the other doctors have a look at you,” he said, turning away from her. Joan sighed.

        Within minutes they had her loaded into the cart. Cass seated herself at the front, taking the reins as Arcade and Boone hopped in alongside Joan in the back. She reached out and wrapped her hand around Arcade’s ankle and held on to him as they journeyed further into the Mojave. He pulled her bent hat off, laying it on the floor of the cart before gently stroking her dirty hair. She closed her eyes and dozed as they traveled back to Vegas, Yes Man following the cart closely.

***

        “I think she’s waking up.”

        Joan looked around blearily. She expected to feel the cart rumbling and shaking beneath her and was surprised to find herself lying in a bed. Her vision was blurry and she patted her face. Her glasses were gone. She squinted at the room around her and could make out the fuzzy figures of Julie Farkas and Arcade. Her throat was raw and sore.

        “How long have I—”

        “Only a little while. We just got here,” Arcade replied. “You blacked out during the trip back and… yeah. That was terrifying.”

        “Try not to move your arm,” Julie said, passing her glasses back to her. Joan slid them on and the two came back into focus. She looked around. The room was spacious and clean, the wood paneled walls softening the otherwise sterile feel of the space. She was lying on a large hospital bed, swaddled in thick blankets. A wall of machines surrounded her and she was hooked up to them, beeping and ticking her various conditions and statuses. At the other end of the room was a table and chairs standing beside a large shuttered window.

        “We’ve got you on a saline drip,” Julie continued and Joan looked down at her arm. She was indeed hooked up to a small bag leaking clear fluid into her arm. She jerked, noticing that her arm wasn’t covered; she was dressed in a hospital gown.

        “Sorry, Julie had to change you. It was all her, I promise,” Arcade said quickly. Joan glanced at him before giving a half smile.

        “I wouldn’t have cared if it was you, Arcade. Hell, you’ve probably seen it all, given how many times you’ve patched me up.”

        He looked nervous and wrung his hands for a moment.

        “I just… I can guess what they did to you,” he said quietly. Joan twisted her head away on the pillow.

        “I survived a lot of things out there,” Joan said, matching his somber tone. “But I can’t handle it if you walk on eggshells around me.”

        She heard him chuckle ruefully and turned her head back to face him. He ran his fingers through his hair again.

        “Fair enough. I’d probably feel the same way in your shoes,” he said, meeting her eyes once more. She smiled at him.

        “Speaking of,” Julie interrupted, stepping toward Joan. She looked melancholy.

        “I need to know what did happen to you in Flagstaff. I can see that you’ve got a bullet wound in your leg, and that your feet were smashed with something, but I need to know everything that happened. Even… even the things that might be hard for you to disclose.”

        Arcade turned, preparing to exit the room.

        “I’ll just give you some privacy,” he said quickly. Joan thrust her hand out to stop him.

        “You don’t have to leave,” she said, her voice cracking. He stilled and looked back at her.

        “I don’t want to be alone,” she said, her lips downturned. “I’ve missed you so much while I’ve been gone. Please.”

        Arcade hesitated only a moment before he spun around and pulled a chair close to her bed before sitting heavily in it. He reached out and laid his hand on the blanket and she took it gratefully, squeezing him hard. It barely dimpled the flesh of his hands, as weak as she was. Julie pulled up her own chair and poised with a clipboard in her lap, pen ready.

        Joan recounted her every injury to Julie and Arcade for the next hour. Julie watched her in earnest as she talked about everything: the fight with Drusa, the gunshot, the bite, how they had taken hammers to her feet. Arcade turned his face away and stared at the wall as she spoke about the Legionaries taking her one after another, and then Vulpes Inculta raping her later the same night. Julie kept her expression neutral, though Joan could see her biting the inside of her cheek as she scribbled it all down. They both winced as she told them how Vulpes Inculta had crushed her infected bullet wound in a fit of rage.

        “God, what an asshole,” Arcade murmured. “Put mildly, of course.”

        “You can say that again,” Joan replied. Julie’s brows were furrowed together with worry.

        “This is… a sensitive topic,” she said quietly and Joan and Arcade both turned to her. She looked up from her clipboard and stared directly at Joan; she wanted to recoil from the expression on Julie’s face, panic rising within her.

        “What is it?” she asked nervously.

        “With… everything that happened,” Julie began as tactfully as she could. “There’s a chance you could become pregnant.”

        Sharp unabated horror shot through Joan alongside sickly bile and she heaved, her thin chest jerking. Arcade leaned forward, grasping her arm.

        “Not that you’re likely to want to keep it, if that is the case,” Julie continued, looking back down at her clipboard. “And we can’t even test you with any measure of accuracy for at least a couple of weeks, but… I thought we should all be on the same page moving forward with your care. Would you want to keep it? You don’t have to answer me now, but I need to know if you’re going to at least consider it, as it might affect the drugs we put you on during your surgery and treatment.”

        Joan jerked forward and seized the sleeve of Julie’s white lab coat, her eyes wide and terrified.

        “Absolutely fucking not. Put me on every drug under the fucking sun, poison me if you goddamn have to,” she said, straining against her. Julie’s eyes widened and she lowered her clipboard to her lap before leaning forward and gently removing Joan’s fingers from the wrinkled fabric of her sleeve. She laid Joan’s hand back on the bed and cupped her own hand over it.

        “I just had to ask out of professional courtesy,” she explained. “No one is going to judge you for getting rid of it. I know I would do the same thing if I were in your place.” She closed her eyes and shuddered. Joan flopped back against the bedspread, her forehead slicked with sweat. She looked down at her flat stomach and saw a nightmarish vision: her abdomen bloated and round, protruding disgusting in her line of sight. She closed her eyes and the vision continued; she saw herself holding a yellowed and sticky fresh baby. Perhaps it would be born with a feathered helmet or icy blue eyes. She tore her eyes open again.

        “That information won’t leave this room, by the way,” Julie continued. “No one has to know if you don’t want them to.”

        “Thank you, Julie,” Joan said after a moment. “I’m sorry I snapped at you. I just… I don’t even like children that much during the best of times. I can’t even… I don’t _want_ to even contemplate—”

        “It’s fine,” Arcade cut in, taking her hand again. “It’s only a possibility. Statistically it’s much more likely that you’re not anyway.”

        Joan relaxed further into the pillows at his reassurances.

        “So about your feet then,” Julie said, changing the subject. Arcade and Joan each breathed with relief.

        “We’ll do the best we can. I’ve only had a glance at them, but it looks like they might not be irreparably damaged. May I?” she asked, tugging the corner of the blanket that covered Joan’s legs. She gestured at Julie to go ahead. Julie pulled the covers back and she and Arcade both stood, hovering over her legs with interest. Joan realized that she hadn’t noticed her feet and legs during the conversation; she barely felt it when Julie ran her finger down the bloodied arch of her foot.

        “Did you give me more Med-X?”

        “Yes,” Arcade replied, giving her a small wave to indicate that it was him. Joan smiled up at him.

        “Did anyone ever tell you that you’re the best doctor in the Mojave?”

        “More of a researcher. No one ever seems to care about those, though,” he replied lightly, a hint of a smile around his mouth.

        “Your feet are in pretty bad condition,” Julie continued, her lips pursed as she continued to examine them.

        “I don’t want to instill you with any false hope. I think with the help of an autodoc we’ll be able to repair a lot of the damage, but I don’t know that I would count on being able to walk completely unassisted ever again. You’re definitely going to be in a wheelchair for at least the indefinite future. I’m sorry,” she finished solemnly, pulling back and falling into her chair. Joan ground her teeth together, her brief moment of happiness shattered.

        “Even if you can walk again, I think your days of wandering around the desert are over,” Julie continued after a moment. “But we’ll see. Things may turn out better. I just want you to stay realistic as we move forward.”

        Joan nodded stiffly at her. “I understand.”

        “Would you like to see Cass and Boone?” Julie asked. “We’re going to get you into surgery tonight, so I doubt you’re going to be too coherent for the next couple days.”

        “Yes, please,” Joan said, perking up again. Arcade stood and quickly crossed the room, pulling open the door and stepping out into the hallway. After a moment he returned with Cass, Boone, and one other friendly face in tow.

        “Raul!” Joan said, sitting up straighter. The trio poured into the room and Julie Farkas stepped back, giving them the space closest to Joan’s bedside. Cass and Boone both smelled heavily of whiskey. Arcade sat back down in his chair and pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose.

        “I haven’t seen you in forever,” Joan said. Raul had parted ways with the group long before her journey to the east, heading out into the setting sun in his vaquero outfit. He was still wearing it as he stood before her now, dusty and wafting cigarette smoke. He looked otherwise the same and was the only person so far who hadn’t immediately flinched from her with eyes as wide around as dinner plates.

        “Goddamn, Boss, you look worse than I do,” he said bluntly.

        Julie, Boone, Arcade, and Cass whipped their heads around to him, their faces drawn and offended. An uncomfortable silence hung over them before Joan wheezed, bending over and clenching her stomach with a full belly laugh. She laughed until tears were squeezing out of her eyes and she swiped them away, still in a fit of giggles. Cass and Arcade stared blankly at her. Boone’s hands hung limp and awkward at his sides.

        “I’ve missed you all so goddamn much,” Joan brayed, coughing and trying to contain herself. The room seemed to relax around her and Raul chuckled too.

        “We really shouldn’t agitate her too much,” Arcade said. Joan drew in a deep breath, trying to keep the laughter at bay.

        “Sorry, sorry,” she said, wiping her eyes one last time before grinning at Raul. “I just really needed that. Thank you.”

        “I’ll be here all week, Boss.”

        “ _So_ ,” Cass interrupted. “You were gone for two goddamn years, Joan. We know you made it to Boston, since we started receiving the packets of data several months ago. What the hell happened?”

        Joan rolled back onto her pillows, making herself comfortable.

        “You guys might want to sit down—this is gonna take a while.”


	2. Normal is Broken

Chapter 2: Normal is Broken

_Knowledge is power to the wise; but a fool will never change his mind_

        “Holy shit,” Cass said, taking a long drink of some foul liquid that smelled more like Mr. Handy fuel than alcohol.

        “So the Synths really are like… _people_ people?” Arcade asked, his brow furrowed. Boone had no comment on her time in Boston.

        “Pretty much, yeah,” Joan replied, feeling fuzzy and tired. She glanced down at her Pipboy—it felt wonderful to have it back—and saw that it was quite late.

        “That sounds… ethically questionable,” Arcade said. Joan frowned at him.

        “They’re not human,” she said. Arcade stared back at her and she could see lines of disapproval on his face. Cass wore a similar expression.

        “They just walk and talk and act like it?” Cass said, taking another swig. “If it walks like a quackfoot, swims like a quackfoot and honks like a—”

        “Goddamn it, they’re _not_ people,” Joan replied heatedly, sitting up straighter. She huffed and jammed her hand on her hip. “I’ve been around them. They’re very good at pretending like they are, but at the end of the day they’re made in a lab. Christ, you both look like I’m advocating slavery.”

        Cass and Arcade shot a look at each other and Joan swelled with fury.

        “How fucking da—”

        “It’s really late,” Julie Farkas interrupted, jumping out of her chair and stepping between Joan and Cass, her hands out. “We’ve got to get Joan prepped for surgery.”

        Joan rubbed her leg, which had started searing again during the conversation. She was breathing heavily at the insinuation that she would do something as heinous as stooping to Caesar’s level, her glare rapidly jumping back and forth between Cass and Arcade.

        Cass stood, the stern expression melting off her face. She bent and hugged Joan who sat stiff and unreceptive, scowling at the ceiling.

        “Don’t be like that,” Cass said against Joan’s neck. “Good luck in your surgery. We’ll stop by and see you as soon as you’re healthy enough to have visitors.” Arcade patted her shoulder and she finally wound down and hugged Cass back, breathing in the sweet and familiar scent of her.

        “I’m gonna get some rest. I’ll be assisting in the surgery with your feet, so I’ve gotta get my beauty sleep,” Arcade said, stepping out of the room and waving at Joan. She waved back as Cass stepped away, following him out the door. All that was left was Julie and Boone.

        “Can I have a minute?” Boone asked quietly. It was the first he had spoken the entire night. Julie was in the middle of politely asking him to leave when Joan held her hand up.

        “It’s fine, Julie. It’ll only be a couple minutes. Please?”

        Julie considered her for a moment before nodding and turning on her heel, exiting the room. Joan leaned back against the pillows again, uncomfortable with the look on Boone’s face. He wasn’t usually an expressive person, but she could see his brows seated close together. He approached her bedside and sat down heavily in the chair Arcade had been in.

        “I shouldn’t have let you go out there,” he said, looking down at the floor. Joan’s throat immediately constricted.

        “What, you were gonna stop me?” she said lightly, trying and failing to chuckle.

        “I should have,” Boone said, jerking his head up to face her. She hitched at his eyes; they were dark and laden with bruised looking bags under his sunglasses.

        “Boone, it wasn’t that bad—”

        He slammed his hand against her mattress, startling her.

        “I let you just… go there. Arizona. When Cass told me that you had been captured, I just…” he trailed off, his heavy jaw beating like a drum. Joan leaned toward him, pinching her lips together before speaking again.

        “This isn’t the same as what happened to Carla.”

        “I know. Because it was probably worse. I saved her, at least.”

        Joan squared her shoulders. She hadn’t mentioned the finer details of her rescue to anyone yet; she wasn’t sure if she ever wanted to, although it was looking like an inevitability at this point.

        “If it’s any consolation—Vulpes Inculta is dead,” she said quietly.

        Boone’s eyes widened as he looked at her. She nodded to reaffirm her statement.

        “I… saw it happen. With my own two eyes.” She glanced down at her hand. The fleck of blood was still there from when it had flung off of Joshua Graham’s gun. She blinked and saw it trailing through the air, red and bright. She swallowed.

        “How did it—”

        Joan cut him off.

        “It’s late and I’m tired. Julie’s gonna kick you out in a minute anyway. We’ll talk again when I’m doing better, okay?” she said. She didn’t want to think of Joshua. Boone stood up from his chair before hesitantly reaching down and loosely wrapping his arms around her in a hug.

        “I’m glad you made it back safe,” he said against her hair. Joan dug her fingers into his shoulders and squeezed her eyes shut against the tears that threatened to fall again. He held her for a moment before drawing away and Joan twisted her head, wiping her eyes under her glasses.

        “Good luck,” Boone said before crossing the room and stepping outside. Julie returned as Joan was yanking up the blanket and dabbing at her eyes with the edge of it.

        “How are you doing?” Julie asked, sitting down next to her again. In her hand was a gleaming syringe.

        “As good as I can be, I guess,” Joan said, her voice croaking.

        “I’ve prepared this for you. To help you sleep. It’s too late to get into the surgery now, so Arcade and I agreed to start in the morning,” Julie said. Joan nodded at her and held out her arm. Julie was quick and gentle, the needle pulling away cleanly after just a moment. Julie bid her a quick goodnight before exiting the room and flipping the harsh overhead light off.

        Joan settled into the blankets in the darkness, the shot already making her drowsy. As she faded into sleep her hands drifted to her abdomen, clutching herself tightly.

***

        Hazy images and ideas and notions passed through Joan’s mind, like a winding river carrying her away, twisting and curving against the gently frothing waters. After a while she washed up on a shore and she picked herself up, sitting and quietly watching a brilliant pink sunset, framed by tall red spires of rock. She turned her head.

        Joshua Graham sat silently next to her, looking out over the flowing river of Zion and she extended her hand toward him, reaching for the white sleeve with black trails forming a series of circles. She spoke to him though she didn’t know what she said, and he replied soundlessly, his darkened lips unreadable under his bandages. She looked down as her feet began to hurt again. She wanted to cry out with pain but was too embarrassed, afraid that any display of weakness would be enough to sever the thin thread of equality that finally linked them. She closed her eyes and endured. After a while she opened her eyes again and Joshua had disappeared. Sitting in his place was Daniel, his hat pulled low over his eyes. His lips were downturned.

        She wordlessly expressed surprise at seeing him and he turned to face her, looking away from the river. He had a bible in his hands—the pages were scribbled and unreadable to her, no matter how hard she squinted at them.

***

        Nausea swelled in Joan’s stomach and she made a weak gurgling noise. She tried to move her arm but it felt heavy, as though chains had been lashed to it.

        “I’m so fucking thirsty,” she rasped, opening her eyes. Bright sunlight shone into her room through the window that had been shuttered during the night and she squinted at it, her eyes narrow slits in her face.

        “Open wide, then,” Arcade said. She parted her lips. Using a minute set of metal tongs Arcade fed her an ice chip. She sucked on it greedily, the room swimming back into focus around her, coming in bright waves of brown and orange as the sunlight dominated everything.

        “How are you feeling?” Arcade asked her. She limply dragged the arm that wasn’t hooked to an IV over her eyes and groaned.

        “Like shit.”

        “Yeah. That sounds about right,” Arcade said. He patted her bedspread and told her to get some more rest and she obliged him with ease.

        Some time later she woke up again. The sun had lowered in the sky and the light that flooded the room was warmer and less intense. Joan blinked a few times before wiping her eyes. She reached out to the bed side table and fumbled around for a moment before her fingers landed on her glasses and she tugged them on. The room was empty. She pulled her Pipboy up to her face and opened the radio.

        “Yes Man?” she said groggily.

        “Ma’am! It’s so good to _hear_ from you! How was your surgery?”

        “Well I’m alive, so it went well enough, I guess,” she rasped. A glass of water was on her bedside table and she snatched it up, taking a short careful sip. “I just woke up. I don’t know how successful it was, but I still seem to have all my limbs, so… It could have gone worse.”

        She looked down at the sheets to assess that all her appendages were in fact present and accounted for before sighing with relief. Her calf and feet were thickly dressed in heavy white bandages.

        “That’s _excellent_. I’m sure you’ll be up and around in no time,” Yes Man replied cheerfully. Joan smiled at her Pipboy, even though he couldn’t see her.

        “I hope so, but I’m not counting on it. How is the Strip doing? Have the packets of information still been coming in from the Institute? What about Vault 21, is it still—?” She broke off. Not that it really matters anymore, she thought numbly. All the modifications she had made to her Pipboy and she couldn’t have spared a thought to install some sort of keyboard or tracking device on it; yet its original purpose still lived on, completely uselessly.

        “The Strip is doing great, Ma’am. Don’t worry, we’re still receiving the packets of data from Boston, and yes, Vault 21 is fine.”

        “How’s the information coming? Do you think we can start building the tech soon?” Joan asked.

        “I mean—do you still want to?” Yes Man asked her hesitantly. “That ah… That _man_ you were with at Flagstaff, he and the Canaanites seemed to have done a _pretty_ good number on the Legion. Which was the entire reason you even went to Boston in the first place.”

        “Yes, I’m well fucking aware of that,” Joan said bitterly. “Move on with it anyway. I didn’t spend two years traveling across America and becoming the head of the Institute for nothing.”

        It had to be for something. God please let all of this have been for something.

        “If you say so, Ma’am! In that case we should be ready to move on to the building stage soon, if you can get some of the Followers on our side.”

        “Good. I’ll have a talk with Julie then. Was there anything else I should be aware of?”

        “ _Well_ ,” Yes Man drawled. “You received a message from Boston a few weeks ago. It um… didn’t sound very _happy_. It was from June Rockwell. Do you want me to play it?”

        Joan arched her brow at the screen.

        “Sure, go ahead.”

        The radio crackled and screeched loudly.

_“YOU TRIED TO HAVE PRESTON REPLACED WITH A SYNTH?! AFTER EVERYTHING THAT YOU SAID BEFORE YOU LEFT, YOU SON OF A BI—”_

        “Alright that’s enough,” Joan said, rolling her eyes. The message abruptly shut off.

        “It goes on for a little while, Ma’am.”

        “Yeah I’m sure it does. Where was that message sent from? She didn’t take the Institute did she?” Joan asked.

        “No, but I think that she’s probably going to try to do that, based on some notes I’ve been sending myself from Boston.”

        “Mn, damn. I hope that doesn’t happen. Once we have all the data for the Synth creation machines I was hoping to have you send over the rest of what you found. I’m sure the Followers can make much better use of it than they can.” Joan tucked her free arm behind her head and lay back against her pillows again.

        “Well, at least I got what I wanted,” Joan said. “The rest of it isn’t my problem.”

        “That’s the right attitude, Ma’am! Don’t worry, my partition out in Boston will do the best job I can to make sure the Institute is protected.”

        Knuckles rapped lightly on the door and Joan bid Yes Man a quick goodbye before answering.

        “Come in.”

        Arcade and Julie stepped into the room.

        “How are you holding up?” Arcade asked.

        “Well enough. How did the surgery go?”

        “We operated on your calf and your feet. You got very lucky with the calf—the bullet just nicked the bone. You’ve been prescribed antibiotics; you should heal fully in a couple months. As for your feet, well… time is going to have to tell. We’ve done the best we can, but the Legionaries really didn’t seem to be holding back. We’re just going to have to wait it out,” Julie said, approaching Joan with a clipboard in hand.

        “That sounds about like what we expected. Guess it’s too soon to ask if I’ll be able to walk again?” Joan asked.

        “I’m afraid so. Though that does remind me, we’re going to start you on physical therapy right away,” Julie continued, passing the clipboard to Joan. She skimmed it quickly—there were various charts of her condition, a printout of her X-rays, and a schedule with notes scribbled all over it.

        “You lost a lot of weight out there,” Julie said. “So we want you to eat well, do your physical therapy, and just… try to take better care of yourself. This is also a good time to discuss your Med-X hab—”

        “Alright alright alright,” Joan said, shaking her head irritably. She tucked the clipboard onto the bed beside her and leaned back again. Julie frowned at her.

        “Dr. Usanagi also wanted me to let you know that she’s scheduled you for therapy—”

        “God damn it,” Joan said, throwing her arm over her eyes. “I don’t need fucking therapy. I’m fine.”

        Arcade sighed, flopping into one of the chairs by the table and pulling off his glasses before pinching the bridge of his nose. Julie sat in the chair closest to Joan’s bed, leaning forward with determination.

        “I think that it would be in your best interest, though obviously I can’t force you,” she said. “You’ve been through a significant trauma, there’s no shame in—”

        “Absolutely not,” Joan barked, jerking her arm away and glaring at Julie. Her face was red and warm. She was the leader of fucking Vegas. It was bad enough that everyone would likely put two and two together about her time in Flagstaff—what other punishment would the Legion inflict on a woman they hated? She burned thinking about it; how would she be able to face the Chairmen; the Omertas, with this? They would never look at her the same. Especially not if she went babbling off to a shrink every week. In a twisted way she was happy that she had visible injuries—hopefully they would distract from the ones in her head.

        “Just… consider it, please,” Arcade butted in, sounding tired. He threw Julie a look as if to say ‘ _I told you so’_ before putting his glasses back on.

        “Fine, I’ll think about it,” Joan said, crossing her arms and pushing the thought entirely out of her head.

        “So what now?” she asked, eager to change the subject. Julie sat back, temporarily mollified.

        “I want you to stay here in Freeside for a couple weeks while we look after you. Make sure you’re well fed, make sure the infection in your leg doesn’t cause any trouble,” Julie replied, her expression softening. “I think you’ve earned it after everything.”


	3. A Good Idea at the Time

Chapter 3: A Good Idea at the Time

_I appreciate your courtesy, your well-learned politesse—but you got yourself into your own mess_

        “You up to having some visitors?” Julie asked. Joan was flopped on her back in her bed, her legs strung up awkwardly and uncomfortably in front of her. She was tapping rapidly at the buttons on her Pipboy—during her time out in Boston she had discovered a few simple games that could be loaded and played on it and they served as a fine distraction from the aggravating itchiness in her legs and feet from the casts that now adorned them. Julie was standing in the doorway watching her.

        “Fuck yes, please, I’d love some company,” Joan replied, jerking her eyes away from the screen. The game had captured her, trancelike, and she wasn’t sure whether she was actually enjoying it or if it was just an extremely effective means of escape.

        “Who is it?” she asked.

        Julie gave her a small smile and disappeared back into the hallway. After a couple minutes she heard footsteps approaching the room again.

        “How you holdin’ up, kid?” Doc Mitchell asked, stepping lightly through the doorway. Sunny Smiles was on his heels and Joan immediately perked up, the game forgotten.

        “Doc, Sunny! I haven’t seen either of you in years,” Joan exclaimed. Even before her long journey out east she had found less and less time to visit her ‘hometown’, in as much Goodsprings could be considered that. She instinctively tried to pull herself to her feet and winced. Doc Mitchell rushed forward, thrusting a hand out to stop her.

        “Now don’t go pushin’ yourself on my account,” he said. He was more weathered in the face, the fine lines and wrinkles around his eyes and mouth set deeper and tanner than they had been the last time they met. “You haven’t changed a bit since the day we met.”

        “Heard you gave those Legion boys a right ass kicking,” Sunny Smiles said, looking thoroughly impressed. She looked virtually unchanged, even from the first time they had met, shooting at Sunset Sarsaparilla bottles together behind the Prospector Saloon.

        “I don’t know that I’d go that far,” Joan replied awkwardly, tugging at a stray lock of hair next to her ear. She decided to change the subject. “I can’t believe you two came all the way out here to see me.”

        “Naw, don’t worry about it,” Doc Mitchell began warmly, seating himself in the chair closest to her bed. “I haven’t been back to Vegas in years now. It’s been nice to return, especially since you restored Vault 21. It’s lookin’ real fine these days, just about the same as it did when I was growing up.”

        “You’re still welcome to move back in at any time,” Joan said. As soon as the restoration had been completed she had sent a courier to his house in Goodsprings, announcing a spot for him if he wanted it. One of very few permanent positions available to the public. Doc Mitchell smiled at her.

        “I’ve settled my roots down in Goodsprings, I think. Besides, when I pass I want to be next to my wife. Don’t feel right leavin’ her behind.”

        Joan swallowed, unsure of what to say. She didn’t like to contemplate death, the unavoidable. Doc Mitchell noticed her hesitation and chuckled.

        “But we’re not here to talk about me. How are you doing? Looks like you got roughed up pretty good out in Arizona. Can’t say you looked much better when we first met. But hell, at least you’re still kickin’.”

        “Damn straight she is. I always knew you were a fighter,” Sunny Smiles chimed in. “When I saw you charge straight at a gecko with nothing but a table knife, I knew you were some kind of determined. Or stupid. Or maybe some mixture of both.”

        Joan threw back her head and laughed. It felt like coming home all over again to meet with them. They spent a few hours chatting with each other, mostly about what had been going on in Goodsprings for the last few years. The small town was thriving with the caravans and travelers coming in from the NCR, making for a useful pit stop on the road between Primm and New Vegas. Sunny Smiles was still functioning as the law in the town, a role that she took as seriously as she ever did. Some of the remnants of the Fiends had traveled south, hoping that the small town would be easy to knock over; Sunny and her hand selected militia had shown them that Goodsprings wasn’t to be underestimated. It was one of the few places in the Mojave that didn’t have any Securitrons present, as a token of respect for Trudy.

        Doc Mitchell still served as the town’s sole doctor. He had kept busy enough, even as he entered into his twilight years. Instead of treating gecko bites he now mostly tended to people who had failed to take proper care of themselves in the harsh environment of the desert, suffering from heatstroke and dehydration as they traveled the long road between Vegas and Primm.

        “So how about you?” Sunny asked. She had drawn up one of the chairs and was sitting in it backwards, her short legs thrust out on either side of the back of the chair. “We heard you went out east for a spell. We know you took on the Legion when you got back, but what else were you doing? Never heard of you leaving the Mojave much before.”

        “Ah… business, you know. Heard some rumors about some interesting technology out east, decided to pursue it,” Joan said, idly twisting one of the dials on her Pipboy.

        “How did that go?” Doc Mitchell asked. He was beginning to look tired.

        “I think it has the potential to be life changing, if I can get the right people on board with it,” Joan replied. She didn’t want to show too much of her hand, even to the people she loosely considered her family. Her Synth project was going to be kept tightly under wraps, at least until it was in production.

        “You look pretty beat, Doc,” Sunny said, eying him. Doc Mitchell yawned, covering his mouth with the back of his hand.

        “I reckon I am. Want to hit up the Strip for one last night before heading back to Goodsprings?” he asked. Joan was beginning to feel peaky and worn herself and had relaxed deep into the mattress again, the first signs of pain blooming in her legs. Sunny sprang to her feet and Doc Mitchell let her help him out of his chair.

        “You take care now, Joan. You got this—if you can withstand being shot in the head, you can handle your feet being all busted,” Sunny Smiles said, bending down and giving Joan a quick hug. She trotted to the end of the room and stepped out of the door, leaving Joan alone with Doc Mitchell.

        “They takin’ good care of you here?” he asked, the wrinkles around his eyes bunching with a gentle smile. “I know I’m not your doctor anymore, but I always did have a soft spot for you.”

        “Don’t worry about me. I’m practically getting the royal treatment out here, between Julie Farkas and the rest of the Followers,” Joan replied, returning his smile. She held her arms out, inviting him into a hug. He quickly accepted, bending down—albeit stiffly—and wrapping his arms around her tightly. Joan pressed her eyes closed and embraced him, much harder than she had hugged any of her other friends.

        “You’re not on the chems too much these days, are you?” he asked against her shoulder. She stiffened in his arms and his chest rumbled with a low laugh. “That’s about what I expected. Don’t just let the Followers take care of you, watch out for yourself too.

        “Sunny and I are gonna spend the night in one of the hotels on the Strip, the Tops I think. Seemed like the nicest of the bunch up here. We’re heading back to Goodsprings in the morning. Don’t be a stranger now, come and see us when you get up and moving,” he finished before drawing away. Joan waved at him as he exited the room.

***

        It had been a few days since Doc Mitchell and Sunny Smiles had visited, and Joan was already restless and bored, eager to return to the Lucky 38. She wanted to check the progress on the information coming in from Boston, to see it and look at it with her own two eyes. She sprawled out on the mattress, her legs still suspended in the air. Cass had been hanging out with her, sitting and having a drink that Joan was intensely envious of. Every time Julie Farkas had passed in and out of the room she had turned her nose up at Joan, warning her that she was absolutely not to imbibe, lecturing her on the deadly effects of mixing alcohol and Med-X. Joan wanted to roll her eyes each time, already more than familiar with the possible consequences.

        “You’ve got another visitor today,” Julie said, interrupting Joan’s covetous thoughts as she watched Cass’s throat bob as she drank deeply. She jerked her eyes away, looking up at the open door of her hospital room.

        “Who is it?” she asked, surprised. People had been coming to visit her with steady regularity since she had arrived, and she was hard pressed to think of anyone in Vegas or its outskirts that hadn’t already seen her. The Garret twins had been among the first to visit as she lay groggily recovering from her surgeries. They had brought armfuls of liquor that Julie had immediately confiscated, much to everyone’s annoyance. James Garret promised Joan that Fisto would be waiting for her if she decided to stop by and she flushed a furious red, shooing them out the door as Arcade stared at her with his eyebrows arched. A few members of the Kings had also dropped by, bringing gifts of food and water which Julie had happily permitted. Though none had visited in person, she received a note from Cachino of the Omertas; it was a single bottlecap taped to a piece of dirty paper that read GET BETTER. Joan had turned her nose up at it, tossing the gift to the floor.

        “I’m not too sure, to be honest,” Julie replied hesitantly. “She’s got this weird… mask on. I think she’s with that casino on the Strip, the Ultra Luxe? She’s pretty snobby. Do you want to see her?”

        Joan arched her eyebrows, surprised that anyone from the White Glove Society would reach out to her. She shrugged.

        “Sure, send her in.”

        Julie stepped out into the hallway and a moment later she reappeared with a small dark haired woman in an impeccably clean dress by her side. The woman was visibly uncomfortable and shut the door on Julie’s face as she quickly entered the room. Joan sat up in bed, as best as she could manage with her legs thrust out.

        “Marjorie?” she asked tentatively. The woman in the mask stiffened.

        “Oh dear. Well, I suppose I should have known I would stick out like a sore thumb in this… hovel,” she said, pulling the mask off her face. She had a large glossy black bag tucked under her arm and looked around for somewhere to set it, finding the table apparently unsatisfactory. Her eyes darted back and forth before she finally settled on placing the parcel near the foot of Joan’s bed, smoothing out the blankets before delicately setting it down.

        “We’re simply delighted to hear that you wiped out those uncouth savages, dear,” Marjorie said, standing at Joan’s bedside. Joan eyed the package warily.

        “Thank you,” she replied. Marjorie seemed to relax at this and leaned forward.

        “Why, when Mortimer and I learned of the terrible injuries you had sustained, we just knew you wouldn’t be fed well enough out here in… Freeside,” she said haltingly. It was abundantly clear that she had deliberated on what exactly she wanted to call the area before giving up and calling it by name. “The food out here, why… It can hardly be called _food_ at all, suffice to say. As a token of appreciation for looking out for us after all these years and for… turning a blind eye every now and again, we wanted to thank you.”

        Joan stared up at Marjorie, slack jawed and aghast. Cass’s expression matched her own.

        “You know the law, Marjo—” she began before Marjorie cut her off with a girlish titter of laughter.

        “Yes yes, we all know one must keep up appearances. Please, accept these steaks that Mortimer had specially prepared for you. Why, you’ll feel better in no time!”

        Joan stared at the package even more cautiously than she had before. She could smell it now: the scent of delicate spices and expertly grilled meat wafted from the bag, slowly permeating the room.

        “That… that isn’t…”

        Marjorie covered her mouth with shock.

        “Goodness no! Even after all these years, you still think that the White Glove Society would indulge in such dark and churlish activities? I can assure you that these steaks are made from the highest quality bighorner meat that’s available.”

        “I see…”  Joan trailed off. Back before the second battle for Hoover Dam she had wanted to keep peace on the Strip and maintain the flow of business, so she had allowed the Ultra Luxe to continue to function—on the condition that they abide by the laws of the Strip, which now very specifically included clauses about the consumption of human flesh. As time went by Joan had grown comfortable, absorbed with her upcoming expedition to Boston, and the White Glove Society had begun skirting the law once again. Nothing that Joan could ever definitively prove, but there were enough strange disappearances that she had long been suspicious.

        “Well dear, I’m afraid I must head back to the Strip now. It just isn’t right for one of our ilk to be seen here among the riffraff. I hope you understand what a magnanimous gesture it is that I came to see you personally,” Marjorie continued, holding out a pale hand. Joan quickly shook it before yanking her hand back, the hairs on her arm rising at Marjorie’s cold skin.

        “Ta ta!” Marjorie pulled the mask back over her face and swept out of the room. Cass was staring at the bag on the end of the bed with disgust.

        “You’re not actually going to eat that, are you?” she asked.

        “Hell no, get that goddamn thing out of here,” Joan replied, pressing into the pillows to further distance herself from it. She didn’t even want to touch the cursed thing. Cass wrinkled her nose and pinched the top of the bag between her thumb and forefinger before flinging it into the waste bin on the other side of the room.


	4. Best Friends

Chapter 4: Best Friends

_I never learned from my mistakes, until I'm too late to do anything_

        “Alright, you ready to be lifted?” Arcade asked. He was standing next to a wheelchair, the least battered one that could be scrounged up. It had been two weeks to the day since Joan had woken in her hospital bed after her surgery. She hadn’t been outside once in that time and felt claustrophobic, ready to return to the world, eager to escape the prison that her hospital room was slowly morphing into. Joan had considered it very sweet that Julie Farkas insisted on doting on her personally but she longed for freedom. It didn’t help that the day before, Dr. Usanagi had come to her bedside and spoken to her about therapy again. She had left with a dark cloud over her usually friendly face, calling back promises of saving a spot for Joan on her patient roster. Joan had wanted to hurl her drinking glass at the door after her, only just managing to restrain herself.

        “Yes, God, get me the hell out of this room,” Joan said, raising her arms. Arcade lifted her easily and she clenched her jaw, trying not to think of Arizona. In a moment she was seated in the wheelchair, her thickly dressed legs propped out in front of her. She was wearing one of her trademark suits again, a fresh one that Julie had been kind enough to help her into.

        “I’m surprised that you still want to wear that, given what you told me about Flagstaff,” Arcade said, wheeling her out of the room.

        “Well it’s not like it’s the exact same suit,” Joan said. It was identical to the one she usually wore. She yanked at her blood red tie, feeling more at ease than she had in some time as Arcade wheeled her through the long hallway, past several closed doors that led to the other patient rooms. In her lap was a bag that contained her old battered and filthy suit and she glanced down at it—a blood specked white sleeve poked out and she tucked it back inside before reaching into her fresh suit. Within it was her bible, tucked into its new home, the same as its old home. Part of her wanted to burn the old suit—as she had promised herself she would—but found that she bore a strange and curious attachment to it now. Also inside the bag was her desperado hat and she pulled it out as they approached the entrance of the building.

        “You’re not seriously going to wear that,” Arcade said, wrinkling his nose as they passed the threshold, waving to one of the Followers guards that sat outside. Joan flapped her hat back and forth to air it out before pushing it onto her head as they passed through the courtyard of the Old Mormon Fort.

        “Of course I am. I’ve had this hat since just about forever.”

        “It smells like death after being in that bag.”

        “It’ll fade away after a while,” she said, inhaling the fresh air of Freeside. As fresh as Freeside ever got, anyway. They wheeled out into the street and began the short trip down to the New Vegas Strip. People gawked and stared openly at Joan; she kept her chin tilted high. After a few minutes she noted that most of the faces wore looks of awe instead of the disdain and judgment she had been expecting.

        “What’s the deal with everyone? They’re looking at me like I’m some kind of damn hero,” Joan said, craning her neck and glancing up at Arcade.

        “To them you might as well be,” he said, the corner of his lip twitching. “Word’s really gotten around. The ‘great leader of Vegas’ leaves for a couple years, then she comes back and it’s all over the news that Flagstaff is a smoking wreck now.”

        “It is?” she asked, twisting in her seat to better look at him, her eyes wide. “What other news is there about Flagstaff?”

        “Not much, just that the head of the Legion, ‘ _Caesar_ ’, is dead now. Everyone thinks you did it. Which… I wanted to ask—did you?” He was looking down at her, his eyebrows arched. Joan twisted back in her seat, her face flushing deep red.

        “I kinda feel like you would have mentioned it if you had,” Arcade continued, looking down at the wide black brim of her hat. “Probably while reenacting waving Vulpes Inculta’s head on a stick, if I recall you fantasizing about it correctly.”

        Joan drummed her fingers against her Pipboy. It would seem that news of Vulpes Inculta’s death had spread but not news of the Canaanites—yet, anyway. She ground her teeth together; it still burned her that Joshua Graham had stolen her glory. _That was my revenge_ , she thought heatedly, glaring down the length of Freeside, seeing not the street in front of her but Joshua’s blood spattered face. She pressed her eyes closed and tried to remain fair—it wasn’t as if he hadn’t had his own vendetta against them. Especially in light of his final remark before smashing Vulpes Inculta’s face in; it was unsurprising that Vulpes Inculta would have been heartless enough to suggest to Caesar that Joshua’s punishment for failing him be even more sadistic and cruel. That casting him off the edge of the Grand Canyon wasn’t enough, no, better to torture him first, better to teach him some valuable _object lessons_ , as he always prattled on about.

        “It’s… okay if it’s too fresh for you to answer,” Arcade said, piercing her thoughts and sounding solemnly apologetic. Joan rubbed her forehead.

        “I’ll explain it all when we get back to the Lucky 38, okay? Cass and Boone are there, right?”

        “Yeah. Raul took off a few days ago. He said he wanted to head out east since it looked like the Legion had its head cut off—he wanted a slice of the action mopping up Arizona.”

        “I’m sure there’s still a lot to do out there,” Joan agreed. She was proud of Raul. “Flagstaff was attacked, but I know the Legion stretches pretty far. They survived losing their leader once, it’s better to be safe.”

        Arcade looked down at her hat again, noting her choice of phrasing; he continued pushing her to the broad gates that separated Freeside from the Strip, passing by the Securitrons that greeted her warmly. Joan waved at them with equal friendliness as they entered the Strip.

        “God, it feels so good to be home,” Joan said, looking around. The Strip was bustling with activity: streams of people walked the street, bouncing from one casino to another, pouring forth from the monorail that led to McCarran, which now focused as a hub of activity leading to the rapidly developing outer Vegas in the absence of the NCR. As they approached the Lucky 38 a man in a suit charged up to them, his arms full of bottles and fresh flowers.

        “Swank?” Joan said, looking up at him.

        “Hey hey, babydoll! You made it back in one piece!” He grinned down at her before pressing the liquor and flowers into her hands. She blushed and sputtered. After she killed Benny, Swank had taken on the role of leader of the Chairmen; he had always been welcoming and friendly with Joan, but not usually to this extent.

        “What’s with—”

        “We all know about what happened in Arizona! You kicked the Legion’s ass!”

        “A-ah um… thank you,” Joan said awkwardly, juggling a bottle of expensive whisky to keep it from pitching over the side of her wheelchair. Her pride stung yet again that Joshua had also taken this: she knew she didn’t deserve the heaps of praise and adoration that were being lavished on her.

        “When you’re doing better, come on down to the Tops, girlie—we’ll give you a temporary un-ban!” Swank called, already spinning away and jogging back up the Strip. Joan cast her eyes to the ground, her face pink. Despite the fact that she had not earned this, she was still touched at how much the residents of Vegas cared about her. Arcade wheeled her up to the enormous metal double doors of the Lucky 38 and they entered the dark and musty casino.

        A few minutes later the elevator dinged, and the doors of the Penthouse rolled open. Joan wished she could spring to her feet and run into the room with her arms thrown wide and spin around with glee.

        “Welcome home, Ma’am!” Yes Man called from his array of terminals. Joan responded enthusiastically as Arcade wheeled her into the parlor that housed a number of faded white chairs and tables, gently pushing her down the smooth wooden ramp that Boone had installed for her. Cass and Boone were sprawled out in a couple of the cushy armchairs, both smelling strongly of whiskey again.

        “Thank fuckin’ God you’re home now,” Cass drawled before tilting her flask to her lips. “That goddamn robot is creepy.”

        Boone sat silently as usual and Joan cracked open one of the bottles of whiskey Swank had gifted her before Arcade unloaded her arms, setting her gifts on a nearby table.

        “Yes Man isn’t creepy,” Joan replied, rolling her eyes and taking a sip. The liquor burned her throat pleasantly as it went down.

        “The hell he isn’t. He’s literally named _Yes Man_ —you couldn’t have called him something else?”

        “What? That’s what he likes to be called.”

_“Anyway_ ,” Arcade interrupted, cutting off their sparring before it snowballed into a predictable fight. He sat in the chair next to Boone and the three turned to face Joan.

        “What happened at Flagstaff?” Cass asked bluntly. Joan took another sip of liquor, her stomach growing warm and tingly.

        “When Yes Man left to rescue you,” Arcade began, “he had… God, probably about two hundred Securitrons with him. Only about ten came back. What the hell happened?”

        “ _What_?” Joan gasped, the warmth vanishing instantly. Her fingers paled, the neck of the bottle nearly slipping out of her grasp. She stared slack jawed at Arcade, coldness spreading into her arms as she thought back to the night the Canaanites had appeared in Flagstaff—she _knew_ there had been fewer of her Securitrons than there should have been.

        “Yes Man,” she called abruptly over her shoulder. “Transfer into your Securitron and come in here.”

        “Yes, Ma’am!” he called back before obliging her. In an instant a Securitron with his bright face wheeled into the room. Joan grasped the wheels of her chair, turning herself to face him.

        “Is that true? That only ten Securitrons made it back?”

        “That’s right, Ma’am,” Yes Man replied, much more somber than usual. “I left New Vegas with exactly two hundred Securitrons in tow to go and search New Mexico. Obviously you know that we didn’t find you there.”

        “So what happened when you reached Flagstaff?” Joan urged him before taking another drink. “I was trapped in my cell, I could only hear the fighting.”

        “When we reached the city, the Canaanites were already there fighting the Legion,” Yes Man began before being cut off by Cass.

        “The _Canaanites_? What the hell were they doing there?”

        Joan twitched at the horrified tone in her voice; she was glad she wasn’t facing the three of them and that they couldn’t see her face grow pink.

        “I didn’t know who they were at first, of course,” Yes Man said. “We were there to rescue you, Ma’am, so we opened fire on anyone that was in the way. Well… the Canaanites didn’t _like_ that too much.” He paused, bouncing nervously on his wheel.

        “Then that bandaged man you were with just before we left, _he_ showed up and started directing people and fighting with them,” Yes Man continued. The coldness in Joan’s fingers turned to hard and brittle ice. “And… they destroyed a significant number of our Securitrons. Almost all of them in fact.”

        Joan stared at Yes Man, her jaw hanging open in disbelief.

        “He… he destroyed almost two hundred… of my Securitrons…” she trailed off numbly. That was nearly half her army, gone in a single night.

        “Well, not just _him_ , obviously! There are a _lot_ of Canaanites. But yes, Ma’am, I’m sorry to say.” Yes Man wheeled back and forth, radiating a sort of frantic energy.

        “Good God,” Arcade murmured. “How the hell did you get out of there alive?”

        Joan bit her lip, pinching her eyes shut before opening them again. She slowly wheeled around to face her friends, who were staring at her expectantly. Her mind raced with the things she could tell them—even after all these years she had never spoken a word of Joshua Graham to any of them. They had heard of the Burned Man, but seemed to be unaware that the two were connected. Lie after lie passed through her mind: she could tell them she had fought bravely and escaped, or that perhaps the Canaanites were more charitable than they thought; maybe they would even buy that Joan had just slipped away amidst the chaos.

        She sighed, staring at their concerned faces. They deserved better. And after Boston she was tired of living in a web of lies.

        “The leader of the Canaanites rescued me,” she said. The three shot up in their chairs in unison. Cass took a long drink of whiskey.

        “The _Burned Man_ saved you?” Arcade asked incredulously. “That’s… not like the things we usually hear about him. I mean, I’m glad he did, but—why?”

        “What other things have you heard about the—the um, Burned Man?” Joan asked tentatively.

        “What the hell haven’t we heard?” Cass cut in, speaking loudly. “The guy is a complete fucking psychopath. Hell, we’ve been meaning to talk to you about him. He’s been pressing further south in the last couple years, while you’ve been gone. He’s taken territories in northern Nevada.”

        “He has?” Joan asked numbly. She desperately wanted to reach up and tug at her tie but resisted; she settled for rubbing the buttons on her cuff between her scarred forefinger and thumb. She knew that he had been active before she left, moving further up into Utah and branching into Wyoming. The coldness spread down to her broken feet and they felt encased in blocks of ice rather than itchy plaster.

        “He’s been gathering an army,” Boone interjected for the first time, speaking quietly. “He’s been steamrolling entire tribes and small towns, forcing people to join him. The people that don’t are stoned to death. Or worse.”

        “Seriously, the man is a total monster,” Arcade chimed in. Joan bristled, the cold evaporating with the indignant fire that abruptly roared to life inside her.

        “He is _not_ a monster,” Joan spat and the three stared at her, their eyebrows raised. She shoved the cold away, letting the warmth in her belly expand outward as she sat up straighter in her chair.

        “He saved my fucking life," she said. Albeit unintentionally, Joan thought to herself, but one good turn deserved another; she had never told Joshua that the source of what happened at the Divide had been her, although she couldn’t remember it. She had inadvertently done him a favor once, a long time ago, years before they would ever even meet, before they were even the people they would grow to be when they eventually did cross paths—it had to have been God’s plan that fate would intertwine them in such a way.

        “And he’s _not_ the Burned Man,” Joan continued. “His name is Joshua Graham.”

        Boone’s eyes shot open wide; Cass and Arcade both looked shocked as well.

        “ _The Malpais Legate_?” Boone asked.

        “He’s not that either!” Joan said shrilly before taking a long pull of whiskey to try to compose herself. She squeezed her eyes shut; she had known it would come to this. Her throat burned with the liquor and she yanked the bottle away, swiping at the back of her mouth with her sleeve. Arcade and Cass were staring at her with strange and curious expressions and she felt her face grow warm.

        “Wait, _what_? You sound as if you know the guy,” Arcade said, leaning forward in his chair. Boone sat forward as well. Cass mimicked Joan, taking a long drink from her flask. Joan hesitated.

        “Do you know him?” Boone asked, his shoulders hunched as he leaned toward her, his eyes burning directly into hers. Joan looked away from him. _No more lies_ , she thought determinedly, already regretting her decision to remain honest.

        “I do,” she said slowly.

        “I thought he was supposed to be dead. Didn’t Caesar have him killed?” Cass commented. Boone turned to face her.

        “I’m not surprised. The Rangers and First Recon couldn’t take the bastard out, even with their best people,” he explained, agitation burning in his voice.

        “I heard about that too,” Arcade said. “He’s supposed to be damn near unkillable. Jesus.”

        Joan stared at them.

        “How on earth do you all know so much about him?” she asked, tilting her head. The three turned back to face her.

        “How could we _not_ know about him? He was Caesar’s first Legate,” Arcade explained. “He was probably the most prominent figure in the Legion aside from Caesar himself. Hell, he’s even on their currency. He was a huge deal when the first battle for Hoover Dam happened.” He paused, his eyes softening. “Ah… right. You wouldn’t remember that. Bullet to the brain and all. Sorry.”

        Joan sat uncomfortably in her wheelchair. She wished she could walk around and burn off some of the feverish energy within her.

        “So you know him?” Cass said. “How the hell did you even meet him? And when? You’ve never mentioned meeting Caesar’s _first fucking Legate_ , that seems a little noteworthy.”

        Arcade twisted to Cass, frowning.

        “Maybe she didn’t know it was him,” he said, albeit somewhat faithlessly.

        “I’m sitting right here, you assholes,” Joan spat. The three looked at her again.

        “Sorry,” Arcade apologized. “Why don’t you just explain this then? We won’t interrupt.” He glanced at Cass and she took another swig from her nearly empty flask. Joan sighed again, taking a long draw of her own before launching into the tale of how she had met Joshua Graham.


	5. The Heat of the Moment

Chapter 5: The Heat of the Moment

_A look from you and I would fall from grace—and that would wipe this smile right from my face_

        “ _Put a cap in General Gobbledigook_ ,” Arcade repeated numbly. Joan looked at the tiled floor, her cheeks burning red, the bottle in her hand nearly empty. Despite all that she had drunk she felt nearly sober.

        “Holy shit,” Cass said, a look of unconcealed disgust on her face. Boone was watching her stonily.

        “Yeah I… wow. That actually makes me think less of you,” Arcade agreed, drawing away from Joan. She was too ashamed to look any of them in the face.

        “Why the fuck would you say something like that?” Cass said, staring hard at Joan. Joan stroked her forefinger with her thumb.

        “I… I don’t know, okay?” She jerked her head up, meeting Cass’s eyes. “Look I’m not fucking proud of it. But it came down to the same thing. That monster needed to die. I told you what he and the White Legs did to New Canaan.”

        It was something that had weighed on Joan’s mind heavily when she had returned to the Mojave all those years ago—she and Joshua had both eschewed pointless cruelty, and yet in the heat of the moment she had said those words; things she would have never uttered otherwise. She harbored no ill will toward Follows-Chalk or Waking Cloud. She had certainly never said anything like that to them, or to any other tribal she had ever met. A foul tasted filled her mouth to recall that morning now: Joshua hadn’t rebuked her cruel choice of words at all, instead putting a bullet into the back of Salt-Upon-Wound’s head with no hesitation, his blue eyes blazing in the dawn’s first light.

        “He had surrendered,” Cass shot back. “He was on his knees and the rest of his tribe was dead. What the hell else was that going to solve?”

        “You and Joshua Graham had taken everything from him. He was literally on the ground begging for his life,” Arcade said.

        “It wasn’t right,” Boone agreed, his few words stabbing into Joan’s gut in a way that the others had not. She jerked to face him, her brows low.

        “That’s fucking rich, coming from you,” she said. “Like you wouldn’t have done the same thing to a Legionary? Hell, that’s pretty much _exactly_ what we did to Caesar.”

        Boone ground his teeth, glaring at her.

        “That’s different.”

        “No it fucking isn’t!” Joan replied, bracing her hands on the arms of her wheelchair.

        “Yes it is!” Cass interjected. “Caesar was a threat to the entire region. This… Salt-Upon-Wounds or whatever, he didn’t have another army coming in to wipe out everything. What was he going to do all by himself?”

        Joan winced, accidentally putting pressure on her feet with her desire to leap out of her chair and defend her actions. Abruptly Yes Man chimed in—she jumped, having forgotten he was even in the room with them.

        “Ohh, so _that’s_ who you must have visited after the second battle for Hoover Dam—you said you wanted to go check in on a friend up north!” he said brightly. Joan squeezed her eyes shut, cursing under her breath at Yes Man.

        “Wait, you helped him execute a bunch of people and then you went and saw him _again_?” Arcade replied, aghast.

        “ _Friend_?” Boone said lowly.

        “Are—are you… were you…” Arcade continued, fumbling his words and gesturing feebly with his hands instead.

        Color shot into Joan’s cheeks, hot and pink.

        “No!” she said quickly, too quickly judging by the way Cass’s eyebrows shot up under her rawhide hat. Her blush turned ruby.

        “Oh my God,” Cass said, jumping to her feet and pacing around.

        “Oh for fucks sake, it’s nothing like—”

        “That fucking bastard,” Cass said through gritted teeth. She fished a different flask out of her jacket and drank from it. Arcade was staring at Joan with shock and Boone turned his eyes away, glaring at the wall.

        “God, you were… what, twenty-two then?” Cass asked sharply. Joan sputtered before Cass blazed forward, huffing angrily.

        “Jesus tapdancing Christ, the man’s got to be nearly as old as Caesar was. What the hell was he even doing, making a fucking _kid_ tell him what to do!”

        “I am not a fucking kid!” Joan hissed. Cass ignored her, pacing distractedly around the room before turning to look at her again.

        “Let me get this straight. You show up in Zion, he tells you that there’s some threat that needs to be dealt with, and instead of taking care of it himself—which he knows _damn well_ how to do—he just shoulders all this responsibility on this kid, this _girl,_ that comes waltzing into his camp? Before doing God knows what else with you—”

        “ _Excuse you_ ,” Joan interrupted, leaning as far forward in her chair as she could and thrusting her scarred finger up at Cass. “I was not just some _fucking girl_ , how goddamn dare you. I had already taken Vegas by then. Why shouldn’t he have asked my opinion on what to do?”

        “You were just a fucking kid!” Cass shot back, thrusting her hands out helplessly.

        “She’s got a point,” Arcade said. “The man who used to be a literal warlord, who helped form the _Legion_ , putting all this liability on a young woman like that, it’s… it doesn’t say very good things about him.”

        “God, you both act like I was some impressionable young idiot!” Joan lashed out. Rage flashed inside her at the look they gave her in response.

        “Look, I’ve been around the block,” Cass said, stepping closer to Joan. “A man like that only wants one thing from a youn—”

        “I already told you, it’s not fucking like that!” Joan shouted. Cass retreated, the backs of her knees meeting her chair before she fell into it with resignation. Joan was breathing heavily, her cheeks hot with color.

        “Look,” she began, trying to calm herself. “He told me he’s made mistakes, alright? But that’s not who he—”

        “ _Mistakes_?” Arcade interrupted her. “Mistakes are when I accidentally prescribe someone the wrong medication—not spending thirty odd years enslaving and murdering people.”

        “This is why I didn’t tell you about him,” Joan continued heatedly. “You don’t know him like I do—he’s empathetic, he’s generous and loyal. He looks after people. He isn’t what he used to be, he’s changed.”

        Joan shriveled inside at the look of raw and unrestrained pity both Arcade and Cass gave her, their eyebrows in sad and knowing arcs, their lips downturned.

        “Then you don’t know him very well,” Boone cut in, having been silent for some time. Joan jerked her face toward him, some of the bright red color draining out of it at the tone of his voice.

        “I know you don’t remember anything from before ’81,” Boone continued. “But _I_ do. I had just joined up with the NCR around the time of the first battle for Hoover Dam. I’ve seen the reports on Joshua Graham—he’s ruthless, even by Legion standards.”

        “Yes, I told you, he’s changed—”

        “You don’t know the things he did, then” Boone interrupted her hotly. “Because I bet your opinion would _change_ if you knew some of the things he was capable of.”

        “He told me what he used to be like—I know what he’s capable of!” Joan shot back, her voice growing shrill again. Her forefinger ached from where it was mashed against the armrest of her wheelchair.

        “Yeah? Did he tell you about the slave girls he had and the things he would—”

        “ _GET OUT_!” Joan shrieked, her face turning abruptly from crimson to paper white. Cass and Arcade gasped, but Boone stared at her steadily through his dark glasses. After a beat, he stood. Cass and Arcade watched him with their jaws hanging slack. Joan’s heart thundered painfully in her chest, like angry frenzied cazadors.

        “Fine. You don’t have to tell me twice,” Boone said with quiet anger. He spun and abruptly marched toward the elevator of the Lucky 38. Joan froze.

        He turned to face her at the top of the stairs.

        “You know how I feel about the Legion. You can lie to yourself and say that Joshua Graham has changed, but I don’t believe it. And I’m not going to keep company with anyone who thinks scum like him is redeemable. I’m getting my things and leaving.”

        Joan stared at him, her eyes wide, as he turned and opened the elevator. He stepped inside without looking back. The doors slowly rolled shut and the elevator grinded to life, taking Boone down away from her.

        A heavy silence blanketed the Penthouse as Joan, Arcade, and Cass stared at the sigil of the Lucky 38 on the elevator doors. Numbness ran up Joan’s arms and into her chest.

        “I’m… I’m sure he’s not leaving… you know, forever,” Arcade said, his face wan and pale. _Like Veronica did_ , she could all but hear him thinking.

        “I need some space,” Cass said, abruptly bounding to her feet and striding up the stairs to the elevator. She punched the button and waited for it to return, bouncing on her heels impatiently. “I’ll be at the bar.” She stepped into the elevator and disappeared as well.

        Joan and Arcade sat stiffly. Joan was breathing heavily, her chest aching. Arcade was at a loss for words and they sat silently for a long time, the only sounds in the Penthouse the beeping and whirring of computers in the next room.

        “Boone is wrong,” Joan said after a long while, still staring at the elevator doors. “Joshua really did change. After Caesar had him lit on fire and cast off the edge of the Grand Canyon, he was different.”

        Arcade watched her silently, his lips pressed together in a morose line.

        “I know you don’t believe me,” she said slowly. “But I’ve met him. I know him. He saved my life, in more ways than you’ll ever know.” She reached into her suit jacket and mindlessly stroked her bible.

        “So… what about that second visit?” Arcade asked her after another lengthy silence. “What happened then?”

        Joan stilled.

        “Nothing. Nothing happened,” she said quietly, tucking her scarred forefinger into her fist.


	6. Shake it Out

Chapter 6: Shake it Out

_And every demon wants his pound of flesh—but I like to keep some things to myself_

        Joan was staring out over the wide protective ledge on the balcony of the Lucky 38 as the bleached and watery morning sunlight washed over the city. Blearily she dragged her Pipboy up to her nose—Boone had been gone for just over eighteen hours. She pulled the bottle of whiskey she had been steadily nursing from where it was wedged between her knees and tossed her head back, welcoming the numbing fire that coursed down her throat. She had been awake for a couple of hours, most of which had been spent watching the early morning quiet on the Strip, while working her way through one of the fancy bottles Swank had gifted her the previous day. Arcade and Julie had taken all her Med-X from her; she made a mental note to chuck a good bag of caps at the Tops casino when she got the chance, to pay Swank back for being her unintended mental savior in these dark times.

        Far below her the Strip was calm, relatively speaking. The throngs of people were slower, more sluggish, many of them concentrating only on getting back to the monorail or to their hotel rooms. They looked tiny and antlike from the height of the Lucky 38, and Joan envied them. She wished she could go back to a time when she could carelessly stumble across the Strip at eight in the morning, drunk as a skunk and untroubled. She ran her hand across her stomach.

        She hadn’t just been drinking to forget Boone’s parting words to her. For the past two weeks the thought that had made a permanent home in the back of her mind was the possibility that something was growing inside her, wretched and parasitic. Late at night, at her most sober and fearful, she would lie in bed and dig her fingers into her abdomen, irrationally certain that she could feel something there. She knew that couldn’t be the case, of course, but it hadn’t stopped the terror welling under the surface of her logical mind. Even if something was there—and she knew Julie would have it taken care of—the thought nauseated her, sickened her in a way that even Vulpes Inculta hadn’t managed to achieve while he was being cruelly affectionate and tender with her. She numbly thought of him now, and wondered if he was laughing at her from Hell, deliciously satisfied that even beyond the grave he was tormenting her, still snatching away her sense of safety and security. She shivered and took another long draw from the bottle.

        Behind her one of the glass doors that led to the penthouse slid open. Cass, judging by the sound of her heeled boots and light footsteps. Joan continued to stare down at the Strip.

        “Damn, you look like a mess,” Cass said, dragging a chair out of the lobby and plopping into it next to her. Joan looked down at herself and supposed she had indeed seen better days. Her suit was already mussed and wrinkled; she hadn’t bothered taking it off before passing out unceremoniously in one of the chairs in the Penthouse, long after Arcade had left. She had crawled from one chair to another when she had groggily woken up, dragging only the mess of bottles with her. Her wheelchair sat abandoned inside—the alcohol had long numbed the pain in her leg and feet.

        “Here. Far be it from me to judge you for having whiskey for breakfast, but you should at least eat something solid,” Cass said, extending a stick at Joan. Impaled on it were several charred pieces of meat, interspersed with wrinkly blackened peppers. Joan took it from her and it dangled limply in her fingertips.

        “Oh come on, I didn’t stop at that food cart for nothing, eat the damn thing,” Cass urged her. In her hand was a small paper tray filled with more of the kebabs. Joan narrowed her eyes at her before taking a bite. Bighorner meat melted on her tongue and seemed to infuse her with the first true hunger she had felt since her return. She took a couple more cautious bites before setting her bottle down and digging into the rest of it, crunching into the delicious smoky peppers with enthusiasm.

        As things had usually been between them, Cass and Joan were back on good terms. It was a quality that Joan had always thoroughly appreciated about Cass—there was no need to talk about feelings or work things out. They could fight one moment and be best friends the next. Joan ate her food gratefully and Cass acknowledged that, watching her as she tore into another kebab with a small and satisfied smile on her face.

        “So he’s gone, huh?” Cass asked her. Joan swallowed a chunk of bighorner meat and it caught in her throat painfully.

        “Yeah.”

        “Damn. Well… you know Boone. He probably just went to Novac to cool down.”

        Joan looked back down at the people on the Strip.

        “I doubt it. There’s nothing for him there now.”

        “You don’t know,” Cass replied. She was trying to be optimistic and being only moderately successful at it. Abruptly the chunk of pepper in Joan’s mouth tasted ashy and she slid the tray from her lap down to the floor of the balcony. She gracelessly wiped her mouth on the back of her hand.

        She knew Boone. It was highly unlikely that he would ever return of his own volition. If Joan wanted to bring him home she would have to seek him out, and his words still stung her too much for her to even consider it. He didn’t know Joshua Graham, she thought stubbornly. He might have known of the Malpais Legate, but he didn’t know Joshua.

        “Anyway, I didn’t just come here to feed you and talk about depressing shit,” Cass said brightly. Joan twisted to face her, her eyebrow arched.

        “What is it?”

        “I got some good news for you!” Cass reached into her jacket and, with a flourish, produced a bottle of whisky with a black satin bow around the neck. Joan stared at it for a moment before accepting it; it was a very expensive bottle, among the fanciest she had seen only on display at the Ultra Luxe.

        “What’s the occasion?” she asked cautiously.

        “Congratulations—you are _not_ the mother.”

        The bottle slid out of Joan’s pale hands and Cass scrambled to catch it before it smashed onto the concrete flooring of the balcony.

        “Goddamn, that shit was expensive, don’t fuckin’ drop it!” she said, cradling the bottle to her chest. Joan was sitting with her mouth open wide for a second before grinning and laughing. Cass was pushed backward into the soft cushion of her chair as Joan launched herself at her, throwing her arms around her neck.

        “Fuck yes! Thank God!” Joan cried against Cass’s neck. Cass patted her back awkwardly, her arm pinned with the bottle between them. A dam of relief had burst open within Joan, and she felt freer than she had since she had returned from Flagstaff. She wanted to stand and scream out to the citizens of Vegas that she was officially unburdened; that her life felt like her own again. She settled for withdrawing from Cass and uncorking the bottle of whiskey before throwing her head back and taking a long celebratory drink. It was smooth and fiery and smoky, and it was the best damn thing she had ever had. As soon as she was done she passed the bottle to Cass, who took an equally long drink.

        “Fuck you, Legionaries! Fuck you Decanus! Fuck you Vulpes Inculta!” Joan shouted, grinning and happy. Cass stared at her over the bottle for a moment before hastily taking another drink. Joan flopped back into her chair, content for the first time in… she couldn’t have said how long it had been since she last felt this way. Probably not since before leaving for Boston. She wasn’t going to think too hard about it. She just wanted to embrace the feeling and enjoy it.

        “I’m happy for you,” Cass said, grinning and passing the bottle back to Joan. She took another drink.

        “I mean, I guess it all comes down to the same thing. I would have gotten rid of it anyway,” Joan said, turning contemplative for a moment. “But I don’t feel so… tainted anymore, you know?”

        Cass studied her carefully for a moment.

        “You know, Dr. Usana—”

        Joan thrust her hand up between them, narrowing her eyes at Cass.

        “Ah ah, no. No. Let me have this. Pester me about it tomorrow or whatever. Just fucking give me today.”

        “Fine, fine, fair enough,” Cass said, tossing her hands up. She withdrew her own flask from her jacket and the two sat for a long while, drinking and watching the slowly rousing Strip.

***

        “Alright you. I gotta take off for a while. Try not to get too plastered today, or at least eat some real food or something,” Cass said, stepping into the elevator of the Lucky 38. Joan bade her goodbye and promised not to do anything Cass wouldn’t do. She was seated in her wheelchair again. She watched the doors of the elevator close before wheeling around, taking herself into the adjoining room with the wall of terminals. It had been surprisingly easy to adapt to being in the wheelchair, though she still desperately hoped she’d be able to walk again eventually. Yes Man was back where he should be, his face taking up the largest terminal in the room.

        “Good _afternoon_ , Ma’am,” Yes Man said, bright as ever. Joan had straightened her suit, yanking her tie secure and severe around her throat again.

        “I heard Cass tell you the good news,” Yes Man continued brightly. “I’m glad you don’t have to deal with _that_! That would have been a _real_ pain in the _neck_.”

        Joan gave him a lopsided grin.

        “It would have been a real pain in the something, alright,” she agreed, taking her place directly in front of Yes Man’s terminal. One of the screens cleared for her and she typed rapidly for a moment.

        “Good good, it looks like we can start working on the Institute tech soon,” Joan murmured to herself.

        “Oh yes, Ma’am! We can actually start as soon as you’re ready. The packet I received about an hour ago estimated that we have ninety-nine point six percent of the data necessary to begin work on the Synth creation machinery. We have more than enough to start reaching out to the Followers. The rest of the pertinent data should arrive in the next couple weeks. After that my partition in Boston is going to start sending over the blueprints and coding for the Molecular Relay.”

        “Excellent, that’s perfect, Yes Man. Any further updates on June Rockwell?”

        “None so far, Ma’am. She’s not in the Institute, that’s all I can tell you. I wonder how successful she would be anyway—I sent myself some of the data on those Synths, and _wow_. Even just the metal ones are pretty formidable!”

        “I want to start in on those after the Relay,” Joan said. “You absolutely loved being in one of the second generation Synths when I was back in Boston.”

        “Oh I know I did, I saw it for myself! Ahh, to have arms and legs and feet. To be able to walk through doorways without being a nuisance!”

        “That _would_ be nice,” Joan agreed. “I prefer you as you are, but… think of all the things we could do together.”

        “Why Ma’am, I remember the night we activated the reactor beneath the Lucky 38,” Yes Man said almost wistfully. “Meeting with you up on that hill—”

        “You were so sweet,” Joan said, propping her chin in her hand, recalling that night eight years ago with a smile. The sun was just setting low over the sandy, scrub studded hills of the Mojave. Joan had left the El Dorado substation and met with Yes Man on a particularly tall and rocky mound, as he had asked her to. Yes Man had turned to her then and in his metal arms were a few bottles of champagne. _I brought extras just in case I dropped them_! he had told her cheerfully and she had laughed before relieving him of all but one of them. Then, in a display that surprised her, he lifted one of the bottles in his metal clamps and quickly struck at the neck with his other arm. With a loud POP the cork shot off into the growing darkness, like a thick brown bullet. _Where on earth did you learn to do that_? she had asked, genuinely surprised. He turned and passed the bottle to her and she was mid drink when he told her that he had studied it from an old holotape Mr. House had on file. Also that he had had to practice a lot and that there were several shattered bottles in the basement of the Lucky 38 and that he would really need to head back home and clean that up before the floor got too sticky. Joan had nearly doubled over with laughter then, gleeful and joyous, the future ahead of them brimming with possibilities as the lights of the New Vegas Strip flared brighter and more radiant in the darkness of the Mojave than they ever had before.

        “There are so many things I want to share with you, Yes Man,” Joan said, jumping back to the present. “When we get you your own second generation Synth body we’re going to have to take a break, go on some kind of trip.”

        “It’s not like we have to really worry about the Legion now,” Yes Man agreed. Some of the brightness in Joan dimmed.

        “No… no, I suppose we don’t,” she said before trailing off.

        She had more or less spent her entire new life plotting against the Legion in some way. She cast her mind back to the earliest days she could recall: waking up in Goodsprings, spending a few days getting her bearings, accepting some shooting lessons from Sunny Smiles, quickly realizing she was nearly worthless with a handgun. Then she had left. Within just a couple days she had arrived at Nipton, with ED-E in tow. There she had met them. She’d had larger fish to fry than trailing Vulpes Inculta and his Legionaries across the Mojave—not to mention she knew she didn’t stand a chance against them—let alone the entirety of Caesar’s army. But they had always been on her mind in some capacity. And once she acquired an army of her own, they had quickly become the center of her focus. Everything she could do to wipe them off the face of the earth, she had done. Disrupting their plans, sabotaging them, killing any that strayed across her path; traveling across the breadth of America and infiltrating the Institute, betraying and hurting people… all done in the name of stopping the Legion. All necessary evils.

        And now they were gone. The head of them anyway, although if what she had heard about Joshua Graham was true—and she knew it was, because she knew him well enough to know how relentlessly thorough and merciless he was capable of being—then she had little doubt that the entirety of the Legion would be exterminated within a year or two. Joshua had even hunted down the dregs of what was left of the White Legs. No one could even remember them now, as though they had never existed. She stared at her reflection in the darkened screen of the terminal she sat in front of. In ten years time it would probably be as though the Legion had never existed either. The thought should thrill her. She knew it was selfish of her that she had wanted that to be _her_ glory, _her_ achievement. She knew Joshua had his reasons—if she were in his place she would want to undo the monster she had helped create as well. That she would seek out her own vengeance for what they had twisted and corrupted in her. But it still seemed terribly unfair.

        She slumped back in her wheelchair and wished she hadn’t already polished off the fancy whiskey. Not that it really scratched the itch. She wanted Med-X.

        “You should go see Julie Farkas,” Yes Man piped up, interrupting her thoughts. She looked up at the large terminal screen.

        “Don’t be sad, Ma’am, we’ll find something to do! For now, focus on getting the Synth creation machines built. There’s a world of opportunity ahead of us, we just don’t know what it is yet.”

        Joan smiled at him.

        “You always know just what to say, Yes Man,” she said, sitting up straight once again. He was right; there was still much work to be done.

***

        Julie Farkas’s office was small and meager. Barely an office at all, but that was how she preferred it. The only funds the Followers kept for themselves were just enough to sustain the lives of its members. The rest was poured into research, charity, and development, to name just a few things. Joan sat in the office, glancing around at the barren walls with disinterest as she waited for Julie to return. She had been busy with a patient, ushering Joan into the small and dingy room before charging off again.

        Joan fiddled with the folder tucked under her arm: within it were sets of plans, schematics, and blueprints that Yes Man had prepared for her. Julie had known that Joan left the Mojave two years prior to look for resources in their ongoing fight against the Legion—however Joan had not told her the exact nature of the resources she was looking for. She was hedgy and nervous. Arcade had not reacted favorably to the Synths; Joan hoped Julie would be more open minded.

        “Sorry to have kept you waiting,” Julie said breathlessly, stepping into the office and snapping the door shut behind her. She quickly took her seat in the battered wooden chair behind her desk.

        “Don’t rush on my account,” Joan said lightly. “If you’re busy I can always come back tomorrow, or some other time.”

        “No no, it’s fine,” Julie responded, looking bright. “Are you here to finally discuss your treatment with Dr. Usanagi? I can radio her right now—”

        Joan held up her hand to stop Julie, who immediately deflated. She produced the folder from under her arm and spread it out on Julie’s desk, fanning open the pages of blueprints.

        “We’ll discuss Dr. Usanagi later,” she lied. “These are some of the files and plans I recovered while I was out East. I’d like to enlist the aid of some of the Followers to help me recreate this machinery.”

        Julie picked up the folder and scanned the documents inside it, her eyebrows rising with each page.

        “Where on earth did you get these? This is… there hasn’t been anything at all like this in all the prewar buildings we’ve ever explored, in the entire history of the Followers. I don’t even think Mr. House had anything this advanced.”

        “It’s… a long story. I’ll cut to the chase—these machines create synthetic human beings.”

        Julie Farkas’s eyebrows shot up further than Joan would have thought possible. She continued, speaking quickly.

        “They’re not real people. They look and act like it, but think of them as… highly advanced robots. And I need help building the machinery to make them. Even if I could do it by myself, it would probably take me years to manage it. I need the brightest and most diligent workers you’ve got.”

        “But… why do you want to make more robots?” Julie asked her curiously.

        “Well, they were originally meant to help me destroy the Legion, while ensuring that Vegas would remain protected by my Securitrons. Not to mention that I lost a significant number of my Securitrons in Flagstaff, but…” Joan trailed off before picking up again, her tone growing increasingly bitter. “Goddamn it, I didn’t travel all the way across America and then get captured by the Legion and tortured for three straight days for fucking nothing.”

        Julie’s look of curiosity morphed into grim understanding.

        “That’s fair,” she agreed. “But I don’t know how many people I can spare, to be honest. We’ve been busier than ever, working on the development of outer Vegas, particular the West Side and the outskirts of McCarran.”

        Joan steeled herself; she had been worried Julie would say something like that.

“I understand that you’ve got all hands on deck right now. But please. If I could just have them for about a year. Everyone would be well compensated, of course.”

         “… It’s not like you need this machinery done right away, given what you’ve told me. The Legion doesn’t seem to be a threat anymore. These schematics and diagrams are absolutely insane looking at any rate—five years _might_ be a charitable estimation,” Julie replied after a moment of silent deliberation.

        Joan leaned forward, staring at Julie with icy determination.

        “I have put a _lot_ of caps and resources into the Followers,” she said slowly, trying to keep her tone even. “I haven’t asked for a single thing in return.”

        Julie wrinkled her nose and frowned.

        “So what, you’re going to hold that over our heads?” she asked, her expression hardening. Joan quickly reined herself in.

        “No, of course not. I’m sorry, that’s not how I’m meaning to come off. I just… I _want_ this, Julie. I’ve worked so hard for all of this. I spent a year and a half just gathering these resources. I’m sick of waiting. Yes, I know that I don’t need them instantly. But I _want_ them. I don’t know how long it’s going to take to even build the damn machinery, let alone get it functioning and productive. And even though I may not need them right this instant, I can’t afford to have only half an army. The future of New Vegas is depending on my Synths.”

        Julie glanced down at the folder again.

        “Just a year, Julie. Ten people, tops, and after a year they can go back to whatever projects you had them on before. I’ll be helping them too, so it’s not just going to be your people doing all the work,” Joan urged her.

        “What about Arcade, is he going in on this with you?”

        Joan hesitated. It didn’t feel right to ask Arcade to work on this project, given how vocal he had already been about his disapproval of it.

        “I think he’d be better utilized here in the Fort. He’s more of a researcher and physician anyway. I need people who are skilled at building and programming.”

        Julie brightened a little bit.

        “Alright, that’s fair. Arcade is more valuable to the Followers than he gives himself credit for, especially since he actually puts in the work these days. I’ll rustle up whoever I can for you. _One_ year though, after that they can work for you in their free time if they choose to.”

        “Thank you Julie,” Joan said gratefully, leaning across the desk and seizing her hand. Julie looked at her with an almost impish glint in her eye before clasping her other hand around Joan’s.

        “So about Dr. Usanagi—”

        Joan snatched her hand away and quickly spun around in her wheelchair.

        “Well, I’ve got a lot of work to do, let me know about the people you can lend me,” she called over her shoulder, wheeling through the door to Julie’s office that she had hastily yanked open. Julie stared incredulously at her as she wheeled away down the hall.

        “Damn it, Joan! You’re going to have to see her eventually.”

        Over my goddamn dead body, Joan thought as she pushed herself out into the courtyard of the Old Mormon Fort.


	7. Drop Dead

Chapter 7: Drop Dead

_Learn to love yourself or drop dead; learn to hate yourself and love me_

        Joan whiled away the afternoon at the Tops. She had been unhappy to learn that she could not in fact make the Tops private swimming pool her new home—mostly due to her casts—so instead she settled for a few rounds of blackjack, punctuated with long bouts of drinking. Keeping to his word Swank did still watch her closely, though he was polite enough to wait until well past night had fallen to ask her to leave. She took off, her pockets bulging with her winnings. It was refreshing to be alone for the first time in months; she had enjoyed traveling with X6-88 during both her time in the Commonwealth and the trip back west, but she was glad to be free of a babysitter.

        Abruptly she paused in the middle of the busy street, her shadow bouncing and dancing from the array of flashing lights that illuminated the Strip. The crowd of people surged around her as she slipped her hand inside her suit, brushing against the spine of her bible. No, she thought solemnly. That wasn’t true. She had liked him, cared for him even. Perhaps not in the capacity that she cared for her friends here in the Mojave, but X6-88 had been more than a babysitter to her. She pressed her eyes shut tightly and swallowed before steadying herself, wheeling forward once more. She wanted to go home.

        Rolling up to the doors of the Lucky 38, she took a moment to appreciate all that she had. She may have lost a number of friends—ED-E, Veronica, X6-88, and now Boone—but she always had her home. No one could take that away from her now.

        A few minutes later she was idling in the elevator. She debated stopping in the Penthouse and spending a little time with Yes Man but decided against it; solitude was a welcome friend to her now. Even if Arcade and Cass were hanging around she knew they wouldn’t disturb her in her personal quarters.

        The elevator doors slid open with a small squeak and she rolled over the threshold, entering the common area that had once housed many friends; her stomach hurt to even contemplate where Boone might be right now. She pushed the thought away and entered her personal living space, shutting and locking the door behind her. It was the first time she had been here in two years. It was exactly as she had left it, although clearly someone had been inside to dust at some point before she returned. She wheeled herself to her desk, awkwardly tugging her old desk chair out of the way and shoving it across the faded carpet. And idea occurred to her and she lit up—she jerked open the bottom drawer of her desk before narrowing her eyes.

        Where once had been a reserve of needles and a few bottles of Med-X was a small note. SORRY JOAN, it read in neat square letters. She slammed the drawer shut before leaning her elbows on the smooth metal surface of the desk, fuming.

        She didn’t want to seethe at the few friends she did have left, particularly Arcade, so she instead opened the center drawer of her desk, idly rifling through it. It mostly contained paperwork and notes.

        “Ah,” she cried, jerking her hand back. Something sharp had pricked her palm. She bent over, inspecting the inside of the drawer.

        Right, she thought, exhaling loudly through her nose. Tucked into the back of the drawer was a small wad of paper and photographs, pieced with a spindle; mementos from the Frumentarii. She carefully pulled it out, careful to not stab herself in the hand again. She set it on the desk before placing her lips over the wound, sucking lightly. A tiny pinprick of blood smeared across her palm.

        Gently she pried the stack of notes off the thick needle and spread them out on the desk. She supposed she should be grateful; even if there were still spies in the Mojave, they had no one to report to anymore. And surely they’d be far too afraid to even risk returning to Arizona. As Joan rifled through the pile of notes, she considered taking a cue from Vulpes Inculta: instituting some sort of personal identification system within the Mojave. She couldn’t deny that it had served him well.

        At least, she thought with a bloodthirsty smile, until his face had been caved in.

        Lanius’s blood spattered mask caught her eye on the wall across the room. It glared down at her, as angry and stone-like in death as it had been in life. She jerked her eyes away, flushing. It felt almost as if the mask was judging her for her thoughts. She looked back at the papers on her desk, her expression darkening. Abruptly she swept them away off the side, most of them drifting into the metal wastebasket that stood beside her desk, a few fluttering away to the floor.

        Eager to escape the feeling, she withdrew the bag of bloodied clothes that she had been wearing in Flagstaff from where it sat sagging on the other side of her desk. Arcade had helpfully dropped them off for her the night before—she snorted, realizing that that was probably when he had relieved her of her Med-X stash as well. Some favor.

        As she sifted through the bag, her nose wrinkled. Her clothes still reeked of a number of scents: blood, dirt, smoke, filth. The dull, chemical stench of semen lurked well below it and she hastened, shoving her hand into the pocket of her old skirt. From within it she drew the Platinum Chip. Pointless as it was now she felt naked without it and pushed it deep into the pocket of her new skirt. She also hefted her pistol out of her old suit jacket before placing it on the desk and staring at it. The snakeskin was clean, if perhaps a little worn and battered.

        She wondered if Joshua would have to take a toothbrush to get into the fine grooves of the Greek engraving on his pistol to get all of Vulpes Inculta’s blood out of it.

        “Enough,” she said quietly, pushing away from her desk and rolling backward. She snatched up the pistol and wheeled to her bedside where she deposited it on the nightstand before undressing. It was still clumsy and awkward for her but she managed, wriggling out of her skirt and jacket, tossing them into a pile on the end of the bed. She inhaled, bracing herself for the climb out of her chair; she had practiced this with Julie and Arcade numerous times during the past two weeks, but it was slightly frightening to do it alone. She breathed in steadily; Yes Man was easily accessible via the radio in her Pipboy. Even if she did fall he would be there for her within minutes.

        With a guttural groan of pain she hefted herself onto the bed, panting and wheezing. Her upper body strength had never been remarkable, but she never would have guessed it would be so difficult to heft her own weight, even as slight as she was. She felt a stab of envy for all the men that had so casually lifted her and carried her around back in Flagstaff, before swiping the sweat off her brow and burrowing into the heavy blankets. She reached out and switched off the small lamp by her bedside and tried to relax, embracing the familiarity of home before finally drifting off to sleep.

***

        “Thank you, Yes Man,” Joan said. He wheeled away from her, kicking up a small cloud of dust as he dashed back to the compound to retrieve her gun, a wide trail of tire marks imprinting in the dirt in his wake. Joan propped herself up on the ground, the sand beneath her palms still cool from the night.

        Behind her she could hear a pained groan and she twisted, dragging her bloodied and broken feet to face the other direction. She gasped, spying Joshua and the line of Legionaries, the pile of stones beside him tall and prepared. He was just leaning over and hefting one up from the pile when a shiver passed over her—she looked down and her breath hitched again. She was as naked as the day she had been born. She quickly scrambled to cover herself, blushing furiously and looking back up at Joshua. He didn’t see her, instead totally consumed with casting stones at the young Legionary, his blue eyes bright in the early morning sun.

        “This is more like the Legate I knew.”

        Joan shrieked, jerking her head back around. In front of her was Vulpes Inculta, kneeling on the packed sand, as nude as she was. His face was whole and unbroken, fresh and clean as the night she had been with him. She jerked her knees up before yelping in pain.

        “Yes Man!” she cried, trying to scramble away from him and failing, her eyes darting around, searching desperately for help.

        “Your mechanical servant?” Vulpes Inculta said before leaning closer, sliding his broad hands up her calves and thighs. “You don’t have to worry about that just now.”

        Joan tried to back away from him but found herself trapped in place, as though weeds had sprung from the ground and looped around her ankles, her wrists, her waist. Vulpes Inculta drew closer to her, one hand skating gently up her navel. Joan’s heart began to race, her breathing stilted and rasping. Yes Man was nowhere to be found. She jerked her eyes back to Joshua. It was as if the scene merely a dozen feet away from him wasn’t happening; he continued to obliviously cast the stones, the Legionaries wailing in earnest now. Desperately she wanted to reach out and beg him to save her but she stuttered each time she tried, not quite able to do it.

        “Oh, I don’t think you want to call _him_ for help,” Vulpes Inculta continued, his hand finding its way between her legs and working delicately. Joan’s knees stiffened, her face and chest flushing brilliantly red to be touched so intimately while staring at Joshua. She tore her eyes away, looking furiously at the ground.

        “You always knew what was in there, didn’t you?” Vulpes Inculta had leaned forward, his lips warm and wet against the side of her neck, speaking softly. “The Malpais Legate. That was how _I_ knew him, once upon a time. The stoning people is new, but that look on his face—I know it well, even under all those bandages. I wonder how it must feel to hurt people now, as much as he’s suffered. To know agony so intimately, to know _exactly_ what you’re inflicting on someone…”

        Vulpes Inculta paused, placing a tender kiss against the side of Joan’s throat, gently hefting up her hips and angling himself to prepare to enter her.

        “I suppose I’ll never get that chance,” he murmured.

        Joan finally found it within herself to shove back against his chest, already damp and sweat slicked beneath her palms. She recoiled, yanking her hands back with disgust.

        “Fuck you,” she snapped. “You don’t fucking know him. Whatever he did then, it—it wasn’t him. Caesar—”

        “Don’t be naïve.” Vulpes Inculta interrupted her, his eyes brightly boring into hers. “Joshua Graham was never some lost innocent lamb led astray by wolves. For as many atrocities as you think _I_ have committed, where on earth do you think I learned this from? Who do you think allowed me the freedom to indulge; to do as I please? You’re a blind fool, but even you know it wasn’t _just_ my Lord Caesar.”

        He paused again, staring at Joan’s face. She had finally averted her eyes, though she was still unable to look at Joshua, who continued to pelt the Legionaries with stones, hardened against their terrified and anguished screams.

        “That’s right,” Vulpes Inculta continued, speaking softly again. He did not enter her, instead pulling back and stimulating her with his hand again. “We Frumentarii worked quite closely with the Malpais Legate. When my Master decided that I should become his head Frumentarius, to whom do you think I reported most frequently?”

        Abruptly Vulpes Inculta reached up with his free hand and seized Joan by the hair; she cried out as he wrenched her forward, mashing her face against the juncture of his throat and shoulder. Her shouts were muffled against his salty slick flesh as she pounded her fists against his shoulders uselessly. Vulpes Inculta hummed and it vibrated against her cheek.

        “You must not care too much about Joshua Graham’s past, do you, Joan? You should kiss me again—you were surprisingly good at it.” He paused to wait for her and laughed when she thrashed against his shoulder again. “All your… _friends,_ tried to tell you about him. That doctor, the drunk… does it bother you that they know more about Joshua Graham than you do? That dull minded sniper you kept around; he knew him better than all of them.”

        He shoved Joan away from him and she coughed and sputtered, swiping the back of her hand against her mouth. His fingers dug into her hips as he pulled her close once again, his cock brushing against her.

        “He was a good friend to you for many years, wasn’t he? Taught you how to handle that sniper rifle—he’s almost assuredly the only reason you survived as long as you did, and you know it.” Vulpes Inculta grasped himself, lining up to enter Joan. All the color had fled from her face and she stared down at her stomach, her eyes wet.

        “Years and years of loyal service to you. He even lingered after you backstabbed the NCR… only for you to choose the Malpais Legate.” Vulpes Inculta pushed gently into her and Joan ground her teeth together, blinking rapidly before jerking her face back up to meet his gaze.

        “How could you even know any of this?” she snarled at him. “You’re fucking dead.”

        Vulpes Inculta threw his head back and laughed, boyishly charming once again.

        “This is _your_ dream,” he said, looking back at her and stifling himself. “You could stop this anytime you wanted.”

        He began to gently thrust in and out of her and she froze, pleasure panging deep in her navel. She flushed before looking away and jumping; Joshua was still there, his bandaged arm craning back and forth with practiced cruelty.

        “You don’t want to though, do you?” Vulpes Inculta continued. “Maybe this feels good to you. You are a degenerate after all. Or maybe…” He trailed off, sweeping his finger under her chin and forcing her to look at him again. Vulpes Inculta groaned, but it lacked pleasure. Her eyes widened as she stared at him—his face pinched with agony, almost seeming to ripple and break before he swallowed it back, staring at her as deadpan as he had ever been.

        “Perhaps you feel guilty? Yes, I think that’s it. You don’t even understand why. We both know I deserved what happened to me, but you still feel bad for it, don’t you? For as much as you hate me, you just can’t understand why you were more terrified of Joshua than you were happy to see me murdered.”

        Joan slammed upright out of her thick spread of sheets and blankets, her eyes frantic and red as she snatched her pistol off her nightstand. In her blind terror she hurled it as hard as she could; it struck the wall of the Presidential Suite with a bang, cracking the ancient plaster and leaving a jagged hole.


	8. What the Water Gave Me

Chapter 8: What the Water Gave Me

_You’ve been holding on a long time, and all this longing—and the ships are left to rust_

        Julie had kept her word—ten of the brightest Followers had been assigned to Joan to work for her full time within the bowels of the Lucky 38. The work had been progressing smoothly over the past few months, to Joan’s pleasant surprise. The time had flown by in a mechanical haze of working and sleeping, the need to keep her mind busy pushing Joan forward as the Synth project began to take root and grow. She was thankful; the nightmares didn’t seem to take her as easily when she collapsed at the end of a day of grueling work, allowing her to rest in peace.

        It seemed that barely any time at all had passed when Joan was summoned back to the Old Mormon Fort to have the casts removed.

        “God, I can’t wait to get out of this shit,” Joan said, looking down at her legs. Julie Farkas and Arcade were kneeling at her feet.

        “I promise this won’t hurt. Probably can’t even cut through skin. Probably,” Arcade said. In his hand was a small handheld circular saw, almost like the Ripper she knew he kept inside his lab coat, though much cleaner and duller. Joan watched him, still perched in her wheelchair.

        Arcade set about cutting through the plaster and Joan twisted her face away at the small plume of dust that erupted from it.

        “So, how is the Synth production coming?” Julie asked, speaking over the shriek of the saw. She hopped to her feet and sat on the bed as Arcade worked, and Joan focused on her instead. It felt like her calves and feet were being released from cocoons and she wasn’t quite comfortable looking down.

        “It’s going well, better than I anticipated in fact,” she replied. She couldn’t see Arcade wrinkle his nose as she proceeded. “The scientists you loaned me are perfect, I couldn’t have asked for a better crew.”

        “Some of them were from the NCR, they decided to stay on in the Mojave after the second battle for Hoover Dam,” Julie said. She was unruffled about the whole thing, to Joan’s immense relief. “When do you think it will be up and running?”

        “I can’t say. The body of the machine is well under way, so… six months, a year tops? If the work keeps up the way it has been and we don’t hit any major snags, at least,” Joan said. She was proud of the group of scientists she had been leading for the past number of months. They had arrived eager to work, eager for the privilege of entering the Lucky 38, and quite excited for the fat bonus of caps that awaited each of them at the end of the project on its successful completion. A few of the older ones contemplated retirement once it was over and Joan had all but begged them to stay with Julie for at least another year after they were done, that she would double their worth if they could promise her at least that. Naturally they had gratefully accepted.

        Joan had no fear of blowing through House’s almost disgusting excess of wealth—there were reserves of caps she hadn’t even seen yet, hidden throughout the Mojave, waiting for a proverbial rainy day. She could fill ten lifetimes of gross overspending and barely put a dent in it. Yes Man had told her that as soon as House saw that caps were the currency of the future he had immediately sent Securitrons to every Nuka Cola and Sunset Sarsaparilla factory within hundreds of miles, dragging back every bottle, every cap, everything of value that could be salvaged. The most important of which had been a press that could print the caps. It resided deep within the basements of the Lucky 38 and had been in production for decades, steadily producing a stream of currency. Joan smirked at the thought of Aaron Kimball’s face if he ever found out about it.

        “Good. They’ve had nothing but praise for you,” Julie said. Joan arched an eyebrow at her.

        “What, did you think I would treat them unfairly? I compensate my workers well, you know that.”

        Julie looked away for a flash and Joan frowned. She was surprised at the sting she felt at Julie’s reaction and huffed.

        “I can’t believe you. After everything I’ve done to help the Mojave, to help the Followers—”

        “I’m sorry Joan. You’re right. Just… you can be a little cold sometimes, since you’ve returned. When you really want something, that is,” Julie replied, looking down at the floor. Joan swelled with aggravation.

        “ _Cold_? What the hell, I’ve been busy busting my ass on this project—”

        A knock at the door interrupted them and the three twisted their heads to look at it. A young Followers doctor poked her head in.

        “There’s some visitors for you, Joan,” she said. Joan arched her eyebrows. She had been back in the Mojave for months now; anyone that would have had reason to stop and see her had long done so.

        “Visitors?” Julie asked, equally surprised. She stood up and walked quickly to the door.

        “I’ll go check this out,” she said to Joan and Arcade, stepping away and out of sight. Joan watched her go as Arcade cut through the last of the plasters and they fell away, clunking light and airy to the wooden floor. He swiftly used a pair of shears to slice through the thin netted fabric that protected her feet from the aggravating material; the fresh air felt queer against her skin.

        “Weird. I wonder who’d be visiting you after all this time,” Arcade said, scooping up the dingy plaster husks. His knees popped as he stood straight again, walking to the trash can in the corner of the room and depositing them before dusting his hands off. Joan finally looked down at her calves and gasped.

        “Don’t worry. They won’t look like that forever,” Arcade said.

        Though her skin was usually pale, her calves were sickly white and skinny, much more so compared to her thighs and how they had looked before. It was as if someone had attached bleached and knobby sticks to her knees to replace them. On her right leg was a large gnarled scar, bright and shiny white even against the rest of her leg, almost like a child’s scribbled interpretation of a star. She leaned down and craned her neck to see the back of her calf. There was a scar there too, much smaller and neater than the one in the front.

        “Good God,” she murmured as her eyes trailed lower. Her feet. She had not seen them since she was in Arizona. They were pale and wrinkly and part of her was bizarrely reminded of the fish she saw in Zion. Nervously she attempted to move one of her toes—she gritted her teeth as it twitched.

        “Well, that’s a good sign at least,” Arcade said. Joan glanced up at him, her mouth a thin line.

        “Hey at least you’ve still got them. There was a very real chance we would have had to amputate,” he replied with a shrug. “That you can move them? That says good things for the future. That reminds me, Julie said we’re going to increase your physical therapy starting this week now that the casts are off.”

        Joan looked back down at her feet and dared to let a little hope spring into her heart. She longed to walk again. She loathed the wheelchair, and the dependence she had been forced to put upon it. She worked very hard during the physical therapy she had been tasked with; every day Arcade had visited her and helped her exercise her legs, to combat the atrophy of her muscles. She dialed back her Med-X usage, had eaten well, and regained the weight she had lost. She was determined to push through this, to come out on the other side as whole and unscathed as she had been before, just as she had come back after Benny had shot her in the head.

        She thought of what Joshua had said to her, about the fire inside that linked them, and let a small smile cross her face. It was the single light that had shone through the darkness during her time in Flagstaff.

        “You’re right,” she said. She wriggled her toes again. It hurt, badly enough that she ground her teeth together, but it was doable. _It hurts, but it’s worth it_. She breathed in, fortified—she could do this.

        “Well don’t push yourself too hard,” Arcade said. “That’s my job, remember?”

        Joan returned the small grin he gave her and the door opened again. It was Julie, wearing a pleased expression of her own.

        “Who is it?” Joan asked, suspicious of the smile on her face.

        “It’s someone you know. You up to some visitors?”

        “Sure, why not,” Joan replied, narrowing her eyes. Julie grabbed Arcade’s arm and pulled him out of the room, his lab coat fluttering out behind him. Joan stared quizzically at the door that closed behind them and sat waiting for several minutes.

        She was just about to pull her Pipboy to her face and play a little Atomic Command when the door opened again. Two women and two men that she didn’t recognize stepped through the threshold and she arched her eyebrows at them. They were dressed casually yet very conservatively; each of them wore scarves around their faces and heavy coats, despite the summer heat. One of the women wore a large dressy bonnet. The other woman and the two men had cowboy hats perched over their faces.

        “Do you… have the wrong room?” Joan asked awkwardly. One of the women brayed with laughter and yanked her hat off. Beneath it she wore sunglasses.

        “We come all this damn way and she doesn’t even remember us,” she said, running a hand over her buzzed hair. The light in Joan’s head abruptly surged bright with recognition.

        “Corporal Betsy?” she asked incredulously.

        “That’s Sergeant now, and keep it down, will you. We’re… not exactly supposed to be here,” one of the men said. He pulled away his own face scarf and withdrew his hat, perching it neatly on the coat stand by the door. It was Major Dhatri. His face was still long and heavy, deeply carved after all these years. Joan’s eyes darted to the other man. He continued to wear the scarf that covered his lower face, even after removing his own hat. Above it was a pair of thick glasses and through them she could see his eyes crinkle with a grin.

        “Ten of Spades,” Joan said, matching his expression. She couldn’t believe it. The last time she had seen them they were stationed at Camp Forlorn Hope, preparing for the battle.

        “Ace now, please and thank you,” he replied. Joan shot him a congratulatory smile—it seemed he had mastered his stutter. Finally she looked at the last woman. This one she could not place, despite her best efforts. She was blonde and curvier than most of the women she saw around the Mojave, but it was well distributed—she wouldn’t have looked out of place singing on top of a piano in a smoky bar. She smiled at Joan, her teeth bright and clean.

        “This pretty little number is all mine,” Betsy said, looping her arm around the woman and pulling her tight against her. Joan arched her eyebrows and felt warmth rise in her cheeks. The woman looked adoringly up at Betsy and she grinned back down at her, planting a kiss directly on her mouth. Joan darted her eyes away, the flush deepening on her face.

        “Gloria, pleased to meet you,” the woman introduced herself, pulling away from Betsy and stepping forward, extending her hand to Joan. Her voice was almost exactly as Joan would have imagined; deep and throaty yet distinctly feminine. Joan coughed and took her hand. It was hardly any larger than her own. She was pleased when the woman gave her a firm shake.

        “Finally settled down then?” Joan asked, composing herself once more. Betsy watched Gloria more than she looked at Joan, her eyes large with pride and something like hunger.

        “You better believe it. Met her just a few years ago. Gotta keep it on the down low out in California, but it’s been going well,” Betsy replied, finally tearing her eyes away and focusing on Joan.

        “Congratulations on your promotions, all of you,” Joan said, looking around the room.

        “Not me. I’m content where I am,” Dhatri replied, looking tired but pleased. “Heard about what happened out in Arizona. After everything you did to help us back in ’81, we wanted to thank you.”

        Joan looked at the ground, flattered and pink.

        “Damn right we did,” Ace of Spades interjected. “The brass out west has been pretty nervous for the past six years or so, since the Legion reformed. Since the word got around to those of us that were serving back then, it’s practically been a nonstop party.”

        “Nervous and hoping that the Mojave would take the brunt of it if the Legion _did_ press a serious attack,” Dhatri cut in. Joan looked back at him, slightly alarmed at his abruptly serious demeanor.

        “What do you mean?” she asked. The pleasant aura in the room diminished.

        “After what you did at Hoover Dam?” Dhatri asked, his brows raised. “Not that Oliver didn’t have it coming, but you’ve been on Kimball’s shit list ever since then. This can’t be news to you.”

        “… No, it’s not” Joan replied, the color rapidly draining from her cheeks.

        “This news doesn’t leave the room.” Dhatri cut himself off to look around at everyone. They solemnly nodded and he continued. “As far as I know, there are no plans to make a move on the Mojave right now. But you need to know, Joan—it’s been up for consideration. The higher ups were hoping you would go to war with the Legion again and that you two would just wipe each other out. Obviously that didn’t happen. But… for everything you did to help us back then, I had to give you a heads up. With the Legion gone… there’s a damn good chance Kimball might decide to make a push for the Dam again. For now at least, they’re scared that you actually managed to destroy that shit heel Vulpes Inculta. Or at least that you had something to do with it. Just… keep an eye out. Stay vigilant.”

        Joan was staring up at him, her heartbeat thin and reedy in her chest. The Legion had been a large enough concern to her; she obviously had not been on good terms with the NCR, but she wasn’t aware of just how deep their contempt for her ran. She was thankful that she had rushed ahead with her plans for the Synths after all.

        “Thank you. I know that that’s incredibly sensitive information. This has got to be a huge risk for you all, coming here,” Joan said after composing herself. Dhatri smiled at her, the warmth returning to his face.

        “It is, and thank you for recognizing that. Officially, we’re on leave out in California. It took a bit of work getting out here in secret, but… ah. We never really did get a chance to hit the Strip back in ’81. Figured we earned it after everything,” he said. Ace of Spades nodded sagely beside him.

        “Stay at the Tops then,” Joan suggested. “Tell the head man, Swank, that I sent you. He’ll make sure you get a good deal.” And it’s the one least likely to serve you human flesh, she thought wryly, making a mental note to make time in her schedule to sort that out soon.

        “Nice, we get a little insider information of our own,” Ace of Spades replied, grinning under his scarf and giving a small fist pump.

        “You chumps can hit the Tops all you like. Gloria and me, we’re gonna party with the fine ladies at Gomorrah,” Betsy said, sharing a lewd look with Gloria. Joan looked away, fighting the blush that threatened her cheeks again.

        “Speaking of, we shouldn’t stay long. Can’t risk anyone seeing us out here. Come on folks, let’s have our fun and get out of here,” Dhatri said.

        “You guys scram, Joan and I gotta talk for a minute,” Betsy said. Joan tilted her head at her as the rest of the group gathered their things and filed out of the room in a line, even Gloria.

        “Take care!” Ace of Spades called out, the last to exit the room. He pressed the door shut silently behind him, leaving Joan and Betsy alone. Joan unconsciously reached up and tugged at the knot of her tie. Betsy plopped down on the edge of bed, stretching her long legs out and crossing them at the ankle.

        “Heard about what happened to you out in Arizona,” she said bluntly. Joan furiously twisted her face away, hot angry color rising in her neck.

        “I mean, not that I couldn’t have put two and two together. Scumbags like the Legion, we all know how they felt about women. At least that shithead, Cook-Cook, didn’t have a personal vendetta against me,” she continued. “I can only imagine what that twisted fuck Vulpes Inculta did to you.”

        “Is there a point to this?” Joan asked sharply, staring at a point well past the faded wood paneling of the wall. The color had spread from her neck up to her ears and she considered rushing to the door in her wheelchair. Unlike Julie Farkas, she had little doubt that Betsy would charge her down and be unafraid to physically stop her. There was a pause and Joan risked glancing back at Betsy. She was staring at Joan with her large brown eyes. Despite her callous and downright crude demeanor, Joan had always thought they looked surprisingly feminine, even doe-like in the right moment. They looked that way now.

        “I know what it’s like. And to be too fuckin’ proud to get help for it. The only reason I saw Dr. Usanagi was because of you. Hell, maybe you don’t even remember that, it was probably just a goddamn Tuesday for you, but… for me, it was everything.”

        Joan cast her eyes down, the corners of her lips drooping.

        “That’s not true,” she replied. “I do remember.”

        “Damn right, you remember. And what did you tell me?”

        Joan hesitated, looking down at her slowly healing feet.

        “You told me to treat it like a bullet wound. And it made fuckin’ sense to me, you know?” Betsy continued. “Gorobets, Ten of—Ace, excuse me—they all fawned over me. Told me I needed to see a shrink. Told me how much I was hurting, and that I didn’t have to hold it inside, yadda yadda. They meant well, but fuck, you know, they didn’t get it. Hell, half the time it felt like _I_ was comforting them. They just didn’t understand.

        “Then you roll into camp one day and… well, you made sense of it. You were right—I didn’t have any trouble heading up to the sick bay if I twisted my ankle, or if a stray bullet clipped me. Why should my head be any different?” Betsy paused to inhale and Joan finally looked up at her.

        “It’s different for me,” Joan said. “You don’t have thousands of people looking to you to lead and protect them. I can’t afford to show weakness. I have to be taken seriously.”

        “Oh cut the bullshit, you think I don’t have people working under me?” Betsy shot back. “Hell, when we first met I was mentoring the kid. I’m in the military, god dammit. Not only do I have to have the respect of people working for me, I also have to keep the respect of people that _I_ work for. You think an enlisted woman can afford to show weakness? With all those stupid fucking alpha males around?”

        Joan cast her eyes back to the floor, unable to think of a convincing retort.

        “It’s not weakness. You helped me see that back then. I took your advice. Do you know how hard that was? Some tiny little skinny bitch rolls up into McCarran, tells me that I need to see a shrink?” She paused, huffing through her nose. “Then you show back up a week later, steal my fuckin’ thunder, tell me that you killed Cook-Cook. I didn’t even fucking like you. You were pushy and annoying. But fuck, at least you made _sense_.”

        Joan jerked her head back up, staring at Betsy with wide eyes. She had forgotten that she had indeed killed Cook-Cook. That she had robbed Betsy of her revenge, just as Joshua had stolen hers.

        “I… I’m sorry. I didn’t understand then, what it would feel like for you to want… to _need_ to kill him,” Joan replied stiffly. Betsy splayed her hands out wide.

        “But I _didn’t_ need to kill him. As soon as I was done bein’ pissy and moody about it, I could appreciate that he was dead. That he wasn’t going to rape anyone else, or set them on fucking fire, or whatever else that gross bastard did for kicks. All that mattered was that I took care of myself. I didn’t have to let that single event define me. And you don’t have to either. If some asshole here decides they can’t look you in the eye for taking care of yourself, then fuck ‘em. You’re the goddamn boss.”

        The doors that had been locked tightly within Joan creaked and strained. Betsy was making sense to her, in a way that Julie Farkas, Cass, or even Arcade had not. Joan stared openly at Betsy’s face. She looked serene. Still strong, still didn’t look like she’d suffer any fools or tolerate any bullshit. But beneath her delicate features she saw a placid and calm lake.

        “I ain’t your mama,” Betsy continued, pulling herself up to her feet and dusting off her jeans. “I can’t tell you what to do, and I don’t want to. What you do is on you, and you’re the only one that has to live with it. When I walk outta this room I’m gonna grab my girl, head to Gomorrah, and have the time of my life. Bluntly put—I don’t really care enough about you to sugar coat this. I just know what you told me, and that it made a hell of a lot of sense to me. Maybe you’re smart enough to see that it makes sense to you too.”

        As Betsy brushed past, Joan thrust her hand out, grabbing the hem of Betsy’s jacket.

        “Thank you.”

        The doors within Joan had opened, and though she had been terrified that a dam would burst behind them; that she would be lost to the flood of her feelings and emotions, she was shocked that behind them was… if not the placid lake that lived behind Betsy’s eyes, it was at least the calming rivers of Zion.

        “Did Julie put you up to this?” Joan asked, looking up at Betsy.

        “Psh, of course she did,” she replied with a lopsided grin. Joan returned it, feeling a well of affection for Julie.

        “Go have fun at Gomorrah,” Joan said. Betsy mocked tipping an invisible hat to her and trotted across the room, waving goodbye before putting her real hat back on. Joan sat back in her wheelchair as Arcade and Julie stepped back inside. Julie looked anxious.

        “Alright, alright, you got me,” Joan said, throwing her hands up in submission. Julie and Arcade immediately brightened.

        “Sign me up to see Dr. Usanagi.”


	9. Blindfold

Chapter 9: Blindfold

_Go on, draw another line we can cross this time_

One Year Later

        “They’re perfect.”

        Deep in the bowels of the Lucky 38—only a floor away from the enormous nuclear reactor that funded power to the New Vegas Strip—was what Joan had decided to codename ‘Eden’. Within this floor was the sprawling plethora of machinery that she had dedicated the last several years of her life to. Machines, charts, papers, desks, terminals; a scattering of scientists that had decided to stay with her independently of the Followers, as keen as Joan to see her work come to fruition. Fruitful it had been—seven Synths had been successfully created.

        “If you say so,” Arcade replied. His brows formed a worried arc across his forehead. Joan didn’t let his lack of enthusiasm damper her spirits. Instead she rolled close to one of the Synths standing before them. A dark skinned male, stiff and stoic. He was dressed in sleek black combat armor. Standing beside him were five others, their hands clasped neatly behind their backs.

        “I do. I’ve worked so hard for them,” Joan said, turning her wheelchair back and rolling next to Arcade again. He looked down at her and sighed.

        “So did you even bother giving them names, or are they like…” Arcade trailed off. Joan understood what he meant though—if they had been assigned designations like X6-88 and the Institute Synths had been. The old sting came back to think of him and Joan clenched the armrest of her wheelchair. Everything had happened for a reason, a purpose.

        Abruptly she hauled herself to her feet, swaying and grinding her teeth together. Arcade jumped and rushed to clasp her elbow, holding her steady.

        “Whoa, what are you doing, are you alright?” he asked quickly. Joan leaned into his grip, breathing heavily.

        “I’m fine.”

        Though she would never be able to walk really and truly again—and how that still stung as well—she could manage to stand and totter around for brief periods of time. Important steps, Julie Farkas had assured her but they had both maintained a stark realism about her situation. Joan had pushed and pushed herself, to the point of sweating, tears, and a pain that even Med-X couldn’t touch, but months ago she seemed to have hit an insurmountable wall in her recovery. Even with the uncomfortably tight dressings that wrapped her feet there wasn’t anything more that she could do.

        She tilted her head down and looked at them. From her toes to the middle of her calves were pristine white bandages. Ever since the casts had been removed she had worn them. _I know it’s not flattering_ , Arcade had said back then. _But Julie and I think this is the best course of action. Think of it almost like the ancient ritual of Chinese foot binding; the bandages will help keep your delicate foot bones in the position they’re supposed to be in. Funny that despite all the medical technology we have at our fingertips that thirteenth century Chinese people would have figured out a solution to this. Kinda ironic, given everything, don’t you think_?

        To Arcade, the process of dressing her feet every day was akin to a delicate Chinese woman being ritually tortured in preparation for a lifetime of servitude and marriage. At least that was what he had told her. To Joan all she could see was Joshua Graham. His bandaged face, his wrists, his hands. And now her feet.

        For the past year she was occasionally plagued with spurts of nightmares. For days or weeks at a time they would visit her relentlessly each and every night. Never were they what she would have anticipated: she would have thought that she would see his faintly scarred bare shoulders beneath her closed lids, feel his breath hot against her throat, taste his damp skin. But rarely had that been the case—the most haunting and recurring dream she had was simply of seeing Vulpes Inculta’s face as he had lain eyes on Joshua. His skin nearly translucent it was so pale. The nostrils of his nose flared wide, like a brahmin that had scented flame, wild and terrified. And the scream that still slashed through her nightmares as the butt of the gun came down.

        She never disclosed these dreams (or anything at all regarding Joshua Graham) to Dr. Usanagi, despite being a faithful and hardworking patient otherwise. She didn’t want to even try to understand why her stomach clenched painfully in on itself to hear that scream again and again.

        At times like this though, there was no pain. Just a cold, malicious satisfaction. She could have bottled that scream and played it over and over again on holotape: savoring it like music as she thought of X6-88 and her feet. She collapsed back into her wheelchair, sweat sliding down her temple. She breathed in and out steadily, fortified by the sight of her Synths.

        “Fearfully and wonderfully made, marvelous are thy works… made in secret, and curiously wrought in the lowest parts of the earth,” Joan murmured, humorlessly amused at how literal the passage was in this context. The Lucky 38 was indeed a sort of womb; instead of Robert House, it now held a fresh generation—a better generation—of inhuman guardians. Arcade arched his eyebrows at her for a moment before they settled into a sarcastic tilt.

        “Aren’t you just the little zealot,” Arcade said. Joan smiled and spun around, heading for the elevator that would deliver her back to the Penthouse of the Lucky 38.

        “Come on. Now that they’re ready we have to finish preparing.”

***

        “So this really doesn’t bother you… like at all,” Arcade asked. He and Joan were seated at the front of a brahmin cart, traveling southeast out of New Vegas. Joan had her head thrust back, inhaling the fresh desert air. Much—too much possibly—of the past year had been spent indoors. Even if it wasn’t on foot, it was wonderful to be outside again; to feel the warmth of the sun on her skin. She gently tugged on the reins of her brahmin, leading them down the broken and torn roads.

        “What do you mean?” she replied, knowing full well what he had meant. She briefly let go of one of the reins to adjust the pistol strapped to her hip. She had left it lying on the floor of the Presidential Suite after the first nightmare for all of a day before caving in—tenderly she had picked it up and inspected it for any damage before sitting and disassembling it, meticulously cleaning and oiling it inside and out as she had been taught. It had resumed its rightful place on her hip since then.

        “I’m being serious.” Arcade twisted to face her. Joan kept her eyes steadily on the road ahead. “Now that they’ve been created… Joan, those are _people_. Look—I didn’t say anything at all during the past year. You had obviously seen them and worked with them. I wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt. But now that I’ve seen them with my own two eyes—”

        “And what _exactly_ did you see?” Joan cut him off coolly.

        “You’re going to make me spell this out for you? I know you’re not stupid,” Arcade snapped. “Fine, maybe hearing it will make it real for you. This is wrong. And I think you know that, because every time someone brought that up, you wouldn’t listen.”

        Joan narrowed her eyes. Before them on side of the road were enormous billboards advertising Hoover Dam and Boulder City. The NCR tags had been spray painted over at some point during the past eight years.

        “It’s not that I refuse to listen, it’s just that you’re wrong,” Joan replied obstinately. She looked away from the signs, her face growing pink. Arcade stared at her before pursing his lips together.

        “That’s hardly the only thing you refuse to listen to.” He paused, looking out at the billboards before glancing at her again. “With the development in outer Vegas… I know Julie’s talked to you about working on Boulder Ci—”

        Joan thrust her hand up sharply between them, jerking on the reins with her other hand to speed the cart up. They passed the billboards in a cloud of dust.

        “ _Don’t_ ,” she began before Arcade triumphantly cut her off.

        “Aha, see you’re doing it right now! For the past eight years you’ve avoided Boulder City like the plague. You even personally saw over the reconstruction of Nipton—and I know you witnessed some of the horror there first hand. What’s the big deal?”

        Joan turned, angling the cart toward Boulder City, her stomach already tightening uncomfortably. She was sorely regretting bringing Arcade along for this venture and wished Yes Man were with her instead.

        “Clearly I’m not avoiding it that hard,” she said through gritted teeth. They passed the abandoned rail yard and the ruined city sat before them, exactly the same as it had been since the day she first saw it all those years ago. The rest of the ride into the city passed in stony silence.

        Toward the back of the city, close to Hoover Dam, was the sole sign of life aside from the dingy bar that served the outskirts of the town. A radio tower stood there now, freshly erected. At the base of it was a small group of contracted workers. They turned as Joan pulled up, pausing before waving enthusiastically at her. She waved back as she drew to a stop.

        “Boss, it’s good to see you out and about.” One of the workers had jogged up to the cart, dressed in dirty overalls and a hard hat.

        “Thank you. How are the towers coming along?”

        “They’re going good! The towers at Goodsprings and the Mojave Outpost are completely finished. We’re wrapping up here in Boulder City in the next couple days. We’ll be heading out to Nipton after that. How’s uh… how’s business on your end?”

        “It’s good. I’m ready to go—how long do you estimate it’ll be till you’re finished with Nipton’s radio tower?” Joan asked. The important towers were finished first, she was happy to note.

        “Not long at all, Boss. These new radio towers are pretty spiffy. We’ve tested the range on them and you weren’t kidding—I don’t know what kinda technology you found out east, but it’s great. We’ve been picking up signals from all the way out in the Hub. John reckons he heard a signal from out in San Antonio or somewhere.”

        “Perfect.” Joan gave him a broad smile, some of her irritation melting away. Everything was coming together as intended. Before communications from Boston had been harshly cut—June Rockwell must have managed to successfully take the Institute after all, she had been forced to bitterly admit several months ago—Yes Man had sent some valuable blueprints lifted from the Deep Range Transmitter. The parts and technology to recreate it exactly were lost to time but some of the information had been useful in boosting the range of their current radio technology.

        “I’ll leave you to it then. Take care.” She bade him farewell before seizing the reins, drawing her brahmin in a wide arc and turning around. She wasted no time in making their way back out of the destroyed city, driving quickly along the road that the Malpais Legate had once walked.

***

        Two weeks dragged by before Joan finally received the news she had longed to hear: the radio towers were finished, fully erected and active. Many successful transmissions had been made to and from the NCR to test them.

        It was finally time to debut her hard work. Despite all the time spent idly waiting, the morning and afternoon had been a mad scramble as Joan prepared herself for the presentation that she had spent nearly as long planning as she had spent creating her Synths. Dusk neared as Joan and Arcade set out from the Lucky 38, wading through the dense crowds toward the southern end of the Strip.

        Freshly erected at the end of the New Vegas Strip was a staging area. During the past week workers had toiled away at it, and Joan was pleased to see that it was every bit as snazzy and gaudy as she had requested. Ordinarily she would have fussed over its management herself, but she had been too consumed with her Synths. It was befitting of Vegas: she thought even Robert House might have approved of it. It was lit like a prewar Christmas tree, dazzling and visible for miles. Thick heavy curtains swept across it, richly crimson with faded golden tassels adorning the ends. It was glorious and tacky and perfect.

        The stage stood near the lot that had once housed the headquarters of the NCR on the Strip. It had long sat abandoned and empty, as Joan had never been sure of what exactly to do with the space. It was dull and administrative, inappropriate for being converted into a casino or some other kind of house of leisure. Additionally, the fact that it stood alone at the end of the Strip meant that comparatively little traffic passed through there now, especially since Vault 21 had been reverted back to being only a Vault, no longer a casino or a hotel. The only other building of note was Michelangelo’s, which also saw significantly less usage since Sheldon Weintraub had returned to the Vault to live with his sister. Joan had immediately offered them residence there, after what House had done to them.

        As they passed through the flock of people Joan spotted bright red hair.

        “You showed up!” Joan gasped. Cass made her way toward them before bending and wrapping her arms around Joan in a quick hug.

        “Ah, what the fuck. I wasn’t gonna miss your big… thing,” Cass replied, speaking loudly to be heard over the throng of people.

        “How’s Novac these days?” Arcade asked Cass innocently. The three began to cut through the crowd that was densely packed in front of the stage. It moved in waves, almost like the ocean Joan had only seen for the first time in Boston.

        Cass looked at Arcade pointedly.

        “It’s Novac, the hell do you think it’s like,” she replied. Arcade rolled his eyes. Joan appreciated what he had tried to do: a year ago she had learned that Boone had indeed retreated back to Novac. Even after all this time she had been unable to bring herself to reach out to him, to beg him to come home. Every time the thought so much as crossed her mind, the snippet of what he had said burrowed into her brain like a savage tick. _Slave girls_. Her stomach jumped every time she thought of it, and so it had become easier to not think of Boone at all, despite how much she missed him. Still, she was a glutton for punishment and occasionally tried to surreptitiously ask Cass if anything interesting was going on in Novac. Cass spent less and less time around the Strip and the Lucky 38 in particular; Joan had a sneaking suspicion that she frequented Novac and the roads in between more often these days. She missed her, but at the same time was glad that Boone wasn’t completely alone.

        “That doesn’t matter,” Joan said. She reached out and grabbed Cass’s hand. Cass’s eyebrows shot up in surprise for a second before she smiled, giving her a brief squeeze back before pulling away from her.

        “Seriously,” Joan continued, the spark of energy from the crowd igniting in her and lifting her spirits. “It means a lot to me that you’re here, both of you. I know neither of you agree with… my plans. I hope I can show you that it’s not as bad as you might think.”

        “It still sounds like fuckin’ slavery to me,” Cass said. Joan winced; Arcade was usually passive enough to skirt any direct accusations. Cass, as usual, was much more dagger-like in attitude.

        “How many times do I have to fucking tell you?” Joan hissed, the lift in her spirits spiking into a brief surge of anger. “Do you consider the Securitrons slaves? I know you don’t.”

        The three had arrived at the back of the stage. Only a single Securitron stood there, close to the edge of the curtain.

        “They’re too goddamn close to human beings, Joan, I don’t know what to tell you,” Cass continued heatedly. Joan thrust her hand up to silence Cass, who glared at it in response. Joan blushed and quickly lowered her hand back to her lap.

        “Yeah you better put that fuckin’ hand away,” Cass said. Though her eyes were narrowed, there was a playful edge to her tone.

        “I’m sorry,” Joan apologized, casting her eyes down abashedly. Cass lightened up further and clapped her on the shoulder.

        “Forget about it,” Cass said. She leaned over Joan and looked at her Pipboy. “You’re supposed to be out there in a minute. The radio broadcast is going to start soon.”

        “Right, of course, thank you,” Joan said, straightening her tie. In honor of this event a very special Securitron had been assigned to record the entire show. She wanted everyone in the Mojave—and further—to hear of her achievement. It had long become public knowledge that Vulpes Inculta—Caesar, as he had become known—had been killed not by her but by the Burned Man. Though she had long forgiven Joshua for stealing her thunder, she desired, _needed_ , something to call her own. Something that she could do that no one else could. Something that Aaron Kimball could put in his fucking pipe and smoke and think about the next time he even dared to think of laying his eyes on Hoover Dam, she thought with a severe sort of pleasure.

        In honor of all that, for the first time in public memory a special broadcast was being aired today—to display _her_ Synths—announced by none other than Mr. New Vegas himself. To mask his popularity with the ladies—a fascination that Joan still didn’t understand—he was being ‘represented’ by a Securitron. An artist had been specially commissioned for a brand-new painting for its monitor, and Joan thought she had done his voice justice; at her direction the artist had painted a weathered, yet charismatically refined looking man in a Stetson hat.

        Arcade and Cass quickly ducked out, heading back to the crowds outside and Joan ran her hands down the front of her suit. Everything was primly and neatly ironed, looking especially spiffy for the occasion. Across her lap was a cane; she wanted to stand for as much of the presentation as possible. Though she would have preferred to do it all on her own, she knew taking a fall would be significantly more humiliating than being relegated to her chair for the entire event. She swallowed before finally pushing the heavy curtain aside and wheeling in front of it.

        She had to suppress a gasp: from her vantage point she could see how densely populated the Strip was in anticipation of her announcement. The crowd stretched back very nearly to the Tops casino, a thick mass of faces all turned her way. As soon as she had emerged the crowd grew frantic. Most of them were drunk—unsurprisingly—but they were good natured and expectant. Joan turned her head and coughed nervously into the back of her hand before pulling herself out of her wheelchair and tentatively making her way to the center of the stage, leaning on her cane. The crowd roared and she smiled, warmth flooding her. She wasn’t the best speaker, especially not in front of such a mass of people, but she was bolstered. Despite the fact that everyone now knew it had not been her hand that had slain Caesar, they still supported her, still loved her, even though she had left them for two years. She snorted and thought she might deserve to be called the prodigal daughter.

        “She used to be a courier, but you’ve all known her as the leader of New Vegas for almost the past ten years—by God if she doesn’t continue to just surprise us all every day. A woman of many hats, Joan can now tack ‘scientist’ to the long list of her achievements. Today, Joan has promised to release the first of the _Synthetic People_ ,” Mr. New Vegas introduced her, the AI’s voice projected loudly over the mass of people. The crowed grew frenetic and wild at his introduction, though for the moment Joan suspected it had more to do with Mr. New Vegas than herself.

        “Good evening, everyone,” she began, leaning into the microphone that had been bolted to the stage so she could support herself on it. Med-X pulsed steadily through her veins, silencing the agony in her feet and thinly muscled calves.

        “It’s… it’s a pleasure to be here in front of all of you,” she continued before swallowing. Public speaking had never been her forte. What rare announcements she had for the Strip were usually delivered via Yes Man. She swallowed again and steeled herself; this was her vision, her work, her initiative. It was nerve wracking but she wanted and needed to do this. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath before opening them again, imagining that the crowd in front of her were not the citizens of New Vegas but instead the Directorate back in the Commonwealth.

        “I have a special presentation today—one that I’ve worked very hard to bring you. As you all know, I left the Mojave for a couple years,” she paused and risked releasing the microphone stand to sweep her arm down at her legs and feet. “You can all see how well _that_ worked out.” She chuckled and the crowd tittered nervously. She pushed ahead, her face growing warm.

        “I went on a great journey out east. There I discovered the framework and technology to create Synthetic Human Beings—Synths, as you’ve heard.” She paused as a hush washed over the crowd, which quickly shifted into rapid-fire whispers. She cleared her throat and the sea of faces looked at her with avid interest. Amongst the people at the front she could see the most prominent members of the casinos: Swank and the Chairmen, the regal caretakers of the Ultra Luxe, even a few thuggish Omertas stood huffing and looking bored.

        “I won’t waste your time bragging about my achievements,” Joan said, sweeping her arm out and gesturing at the Securitron that stood at the end of the stage. It quickly worked the ropes of the heavy plush curtain behind her.

        “I’d rather you see them for yourselves.”

        The crowd stirred restlessly as the curtain was drawn. Joan looked over her shoulder, her brow sweating under a combination of the lights and the pain beginning to sprout in her feet.

        Behind her the stage was empty. She stared at it for a beat as the crowd began to grow louder, the tone of their voices shifting to irritation. She pressed her lips together in a faint smile as she listened to them buzz like gnats.

        “The hell, it’s empty you fuckin’ ditz!”

        Joan whipped back around, her eyes narrowing. Cachino of the Omertas was standing close to the stage, staring at her. Her face relaxed and she smiled icily at him.

        “Your powers of observation serve you well, Cachino,” she said before turning back to the microphone. “You see… My Synths are so indistinguishable from human beings that I thought merely _showing_ them to you would be ineffective.”

        She paused and lifted her Pipboy to her face before speaking into it.

        “Prepare for Relay to the Stage, Synths,” she said slowly and distinctly. Immediately she was silhouetted by surging flares of white light; the crowd in front of her gasped as the Synths materialized out of thin air behind her, standing as stoic and fresh faced as she had left them in the Lucky 38. She looked down over the mass of people—Cachino’s face hung in slack wrinkles, his eyes nearly as wide around as dinner plates.

        Joan had wracked her mind for ages about how to present her Synths—it had occurred to her that she couldn’t just show them off. The skeptics of New Vegas almost assuredly would have accused her of cleaning up some junkies from Westside to parade on stage. No, she needed something bold, something flashy, something irrefutably inhuman about them. It had been a mad scramble to throw together a Molecular Relay during the last week, but she and Yes Man had managed it. Much like the cobbled together Relay June Rockwell had built back in Boston, this one was only good for a single use—she was certain it was a smoldering pile of garbage in the basement of the Lucky 38 now. It was of little concern to her; now that her Synth project was well under way the Relay was next on her agenda. She was certain that within months she would have a fully functioning one built to last, especially with the aid of the Followers.

        “Goodness gracious,” murmured someone from the sea of people. Joan cast her eyes around for the source of the voice and saw Marjorie. She and Mortimer were leaning against each other and Joan fought the urge to frown at them as they stared hungrily at the Synths.

        “How much are you selling them for, dear!” Marjorie called out. The crowd immediately began to pulse and thrust their hands up. Joan supposed she was grateful to the Ultra Luxe elite; as soon as Marjorie had spoken they all seemed to accept that the Synths weren’t just random people. Joan exhaled and thanked God for that much.

        “They are _not_ for sale,” she said loudly into the microphone. The crowd immediately looked disappointed and Joan rolled her eyes at them before proceeding, throwing her arms out and proudly speaking instead of what benefits they would bring to the Mojave.


	10. Gotta Knock a Little Harder

Chapter 10: Gotta Knock a Little Harder

_The burning ghost without a name was still calling all the same, but I just wouldn’t listen_

        Joshua Graham stood back as a number of Canaanites rushed the door of the squat dwelling in front of him. It had been barred from the other side. From the sounds he had heard earlier he garnered that furniture had been piled in front of the door as well.

        The only difference it made was that his Canaanites would merely take longer to reach the occupants inside, like owls furiously scraping at the interior of a tree, searching for rodents. Indeed, within a few minutes the door had been ripped down and the tables and dressers inside were being shoved back. Joshua finally joined them, drawing out his pistol and entering the darkened house.

        An hour later everyone inside had been dragged out. They had dug in their heels and defended themselves, which had been bothersome. Merely shooting them as they cowered on the floor risking badly aimed potshots was not enough. Joshua knew Legionaries—there was no mistaking what they were, what they had been, what they deserved. Now Joshua stood outside again, watching a group of Canaanites haul the survivors out of the house. Only two had died in the scuffle; one of them had chosen to put a bullet into his head rather than suffer the punishment that he knew was coming for him.

        Follows-Chalk had offered some protest at these raids initially, which had taken Joshua much by surprise. A year ago they had entered a rather heated argument about it. _How can you be so sure that these are not just innocent people?_ Follows-Chalk had demanded. For a moment Joshua had been reminded of Daniel. In the end Joshua had barely needed to defend his actions—nearly every house that they had raided had contained a chest, or trunk, or hollowed out floorboard containing black and red football pads and other paraphernalia.

        As Joshua stood musing on the past, the Legionaries had been herded to the line of poles that had been erected, and were currently being lashed to them. He stood with his hands on his hips, watching as they fruitlessly struggled and resisted.

        The stoning went on for a while, which was fine by Joshua. This group had to have been among the last of the holdouts that he and his Canaanites had been doggedly hunting down over the past year; giving them what they were owed released some of the tension that had been building up in his shoulders and back for a while. He lost himself in the work, falling into a machine-like motion of bending down, sweeping a stone from the pile and then hurling it, over and over and over.

        The screams were beginning to finally die down and Joshua was down to the dregs of the pile. God was kind to them today—it looked like he wouldn’t need to halt the group to go and retrieve some of the stones to finish the job. He leaned down and seized the largest of the remaining stones before standing straight again. Most of the Legionaries were dead, or at least unconscious, at this point. He selected one that was still shuddering and jerking and took aim.

        As soon as he cast the stone he immediately knew something was wrong—he gritted his teeth and seized his shoulder, his scarred fingers digging into the trail of dashes that circled his sleeve. The group of Canaanites with him stood oblivious save for Follows-Chalk who immediately twisted to face him.

        “Joshua?” he asked, his pale eyes wide. Joshua exhaled steadily through his nose. Pain stabbed through his shoulder and he clenched his fist.

        “I need to see a healer,” Joshua said. The two immediately set off in the direction of the base Joshua had established.

        SANTA ROSA, the battered sign read in washed out letters. The Canaanites were far too large to be contained to a single camp, but Joshua hadn’t wanted them to spread out either. Their force was best utilized in numbers, but most importantly he didn’t want to lose track of any of them. He still had little mind for logistics—it was easier to keep them in line if he knew where they all were at any given moment.

        Over the course of the last year he and his Canaanites had wound their way from Flagstaff to northern Arizona, looping up into Colorado before heading south once more. Most of Vulpes Inculta’s forces had been located within Arizona, but large swathes of them had continued to operate in the nearby states as well. Finally he had traveled nearly to Oklahoma, searching out the dregs of what remained. There wasn’t much in New Mexico—there hadn’t been even during his time as Legate—so Joshua had focused on one of the larger cities in the old state, clearing it out and establishing it as a base. Santa Rosa had been nearly bursting with Legionaries and it had been a lengthy battle to clear it them all out. Since then it had served as a hub for his Canaanites. The wives and children of his men resided there, maintaining the domestic duties as well as administering care to those that were wounded.

        Joshua and Follows-Chalk sat there now, in one of the better preserved dwellings. Pain still thrummed in Joshua’s shoulder, radiating down to his wrist in hot stabs. A radio could be heard from one of the other rooms, faintly playing tinny music.

        “You have been pushing yourself far too hard,” Waking Cloud said to him, entering the room. Joshua stared at the floor.

        “I’m doing what needs to be done,” he said. Waking Cloud tutted before approaching him. She hesitated; he held his arm out to her, granting her permission to touch him. She immediately set to work, rolling his sleeve up past his bicep and up to his shoulder. He pressed his lips together with pain as she poked and prodded at him, pulling back some of the bandages to look at the skin directly.

        “Is he going to be okay?” Follows-Chalk asked nervously. Waking Cloud was rotating Joshua’s arm in a wide arc, studying his face as she moved it.

        “This is hardly the worst thing he has endured,” Waking Cloud responded. She rolled Joshua’s sleeve back down, smoothing out the wrinkles that had formed in the woven fabric. “He will be fine. He needs to rest and give his arm time to heal though. How many more of the Legion men can there be? You are no spring chicken anymore, Joshua.”

        Joshua looked past Waking Cloud, narrowing his eyes at the wall. She looked down at him reproachfully.

        “I am serious, Joshua. You told us there can’t be many more to find. Whatever is left, they will reap what they have sown. _You_ need to take care of yourself and let them go, yes? You will do that?”

        Joshua glanced at her and she fell silent, stepping away from him. He stood and dusted off his jeans before walking back outside. Follows-Chalk watched him as he exited the building, heading out against the bright sunset.

        It had been more than a year since Joshua had first stormed Flagstaff. It had been slow, yet satisfying work. To Joshua it felt similar to discovering a long-neglected firearm, one left to the elements for far too long; it had to be painstakingly scrubbed of rust and dirt before being completely disassembled. Every screw, every spring, each laid out neatly, each thoroughly scoured clean.

        Over the past months more and more of them had been trying to conceal themselves: wearing civilian clothing, lying concealed beneath beds, tucked away inside dusty attic spaces. Without the fear of a Legate or their Caesar—as Joshua had learned Vulpes had taken to calling himself—they had become weak and spineless. It hadn’t mattered to Joshua. Their sins marked them as clearly as the burns that covered almost every inch of his body. He knew it well, could see it, sense it, all but smell it on them. They might have traded in their black and red football pads and helmets for overalls and rawhide hats but they couldn’t scrub themselves truly clean.

        That was for God to do. Joshua was merely an instrument in His hands.

        Yet something tugged at the back of his mind the closer he drew to finishing his work. He had been in his element for the past year. The years that had been spent leading up to it had been unwaveringly focused on gathering men and training them, working them nearly to the bone, all with a singular goal in mind. He needed to destroy the Legion.

        And now he had.

        Instead of heading to the barracks to rest, Joshua instead took off in a random direction, walking with the setting sun at his back, facing the cool blue shadows of the desert. It was blessedly quiet now. The morning and afternoon had been pierced with nearly constant screaming; Joshua savored this peaceful time when it was all over. For the moment, there was no more work to be done.

        Just as that small irritating voice in the back of his mind kept reminding him. He sighed, drawing to a stop before lowering himself and sitting cross legged on the ground. The packed dirt was still warm beneath him and he stared forward. There was nothing to be seen for miles. Just dry patches of brush and weeds studding the sands before him.

        The slate was clean.

        He pressed his eyes closed and bowed his head.

        For the first time in more than eight years he wasn’t precisely sure what the future held for him, and it filled him with a sort of existential dread, which was strange and alien to him. He tried to cast his mind back to the days he had lived in New Canaan. Much simpler times then. Too good to last, he should have known.

        In New Canaan he hadn’t worried about the Legion, NCR, or anything really. His earliest days had been too consumed with survival. He had been watched over by the people of New Canaan and his chest constricted to think of them; he would have wept back then—had he still possessed the capability of doing so—that they had shown him such love and care that it seemed he had never left them. Never done anything to shame them.

        But they were gone now, and had been for many years. He had been renewed with drive and purpose in their absence, if anything good could have come from the savage attack—dispatching the White Legs had given him something to focus on.

        Daniel had had many choice words about that then, Joshua thought back. But he had been naïve. It was a very nice thought that the Sorrows could have fled Zion and that the White Legs would have given up pursuit of them, but Joshua knew better, as had Joan. She had viewed the situation with the clarity that Joshua had hoped, prayed even, that Daniel would finally realize, but never did.

        Joshua supposed it didn’t matter now. The White Legs had long been destroyed, as had any remnants of them. Unlike the Legion, they couldn’t just take off their scraps of clothing and armor and adopt new names. Tracking them down had been almost absurdly easy.

        Back then he had felt a similar twinge of uncertainty. With the White Legs destroyed he wasn’t entirely sure of what else to do, of what direction to go. He could have returned to Dead Horse Point, but it hadn’t felt right. He had lived in Zion for a few months by then and the valley, the temple, had become his new home in the absence of New Canaan. He felt closer to God than he ever had. Indeed, when Joan had shown up and been keenly receptive to the Holy Word, it had almost felt like a return to the days of his youth as a travelling missionary. Amidst the darkness he had been able to shepherd another lost soul into the light of His fold. A sign that he was on the right path, just as vivid and unmistakable as the day he had unearthed his SLCPD vest.

        He knew that he should stay in Zion, and so he did. Deep down he felt that he should pursue the instigator of all of these problems—Edward. Were it not for him New Canaan would still be whole. Joshua would still be whole.

        But even then he had known that was an impossibility. Edward had been well on his way to Hoover Dam then, trying for a second time to achieve his Rome. He hadn’t told Joan then that he thought her chances of success against him were very slim indeed; like Follows-Chalk he could see how much weight his word carried with her. He had worried at the time that if he told her that he thought she was almost assuredly going to die or become enslaved she might not have returned to the Mojave at all, instead choosing to stay in Zion as he had done.

        Which, retrospectively, he recognized had been rather callous of himself. That in his effort to preserve his sanctuary he had been willing to let the tiny slip of a woman—a girl really—potentially fall into the hands of the Legion. Given what she had told him about her new position as leader of New Vegas, he was certain Edward would have been absolutely merciless with her. Much like his own punishment, he had little doubt that Edward would have used her as a prime example of what would happen to those that had wronged him or dared to stand against him.

        He reflected back on Joan, particularly her second visit to Zion. He had been shocked to see her then. Word had already traveled to the valley that the battle had not gone well for Edward, that his armies had been beaten back once more; yet even he could not have anticipated that it would have been Joan that killed him, as well as his Praetorian Guard. Perhaps he had not given her enough credit. Not only had she obviously not been enslaved or executed, she had marched right into his camp and dispatched him herself.

        If she could manage to kill Edward, to fend off his army of slaves… then Joshua had no excuse. She had been joyous, practically girlishly flippant about it. And he had sat in Zion, idly wondering what the Lord had planned for him next, the ghosts of the White Legs haunting the tall red canyon walls around him as the Dead Horses painted their latest triumphs and victories upon them.

        She was right. He had not given himself enough credit. He had been leading the Dead Horses for months at that point, and they had done well, had they not? They had done so well that the Dead Horses were no longer the whipping boys of the other tribes of the Utah. Indeed, Joshua had shown them what they were truly capable of—under his guidance they had flourished, doubling and even tripling their numbers with the integration of other tribes, ones that had once outshone them in battle, now humbled by defeat and eager to join ‘The Burned Man’, as they had taken to calling him. He didn’t much care for the name, feeling that it was too similar in tone to his former moniker, but it had stuck. He couldn’t say it wasn’t an apt descriptor.

        So he had worked hard and pushed the Dead Horses as much as they could withstand, bolstering their numbers. The 80s had fallen under Joshua, most of their number absorbed and becoming his new army—the Canaanites, as Joan had called them. He had nearly corrected her all those years ago in Zion but he had stopped himself; they were not of New Canaan, but something older, more primitive. Canaan itself. She had inspired him. The drive forward had pushed him then. He wanted to finish what she had started. He knew that the troops at Fortification Hill could not have been all that Edward possessed, that there were still numerous reserves in Flagstaff and even further east. They had been mostly slaves, bound to work in the mines and fields—to be used as a last resort—but still they existed, and Joshua would see them gone, like Edward and the rest of his infernal Legion.

        It had almost come as a welcome surprise when the Legion had fully surfaced again a year or two after the second battle for Hoover Dam, led by none other than Vulpes Inculta. That had been also been a surprise—Joan had told him that she had wiped out everyone at Fortification Hill, but one had apparently slipped through the cracks. Of all the men that could have survived that, Joshua supposed it was only fitting that it would have been that snake, Vulpes. He had known him rather well during his days as the Malpais Legate; he and his Frumentarii had regularly come to him with updates and status reports about the lands outside of Caesar’s dominion and what they held within. It was usually up to Joshua to determine whether or not certain resources were worth pursuing, or if a threat should be immediately disposed of. Some of Vulpes’s more ambitious tasks had also involved Joshua—if a town was to be razed to the ground to sow terror it was often at Joshua’s permission, and usually with his help.

        It had been a blessing in disguise. Vulpes had given him something solidly concrete to work toward, and it had been good to keep busy. With a completely singular goal in mind Joshua had worked harder than ever. Most of the Utah was firmly in his grasp at that point and he pushed them doggedly forward. His Canaanites knew the trials ahead of them were nothing like those they had faced before. But Joshua knew that they could do it. The Lord had made his path straight.

        That path stretched before him now. A long winding and dusty road, with nothing on the horizon. For a moment his fingers felt almost cold in the late evening stillness.

        He didn’t know what to do next.

        “Um… Joshua?”

        Joshua twisted his head to look up at the voice that had pierced his thoughts. It was Follows-Chalk, who wore an uncharacteristic look of worry on his face.

        “What’s wrong?” Joshua asked sharply.

        “There’s a… a thing on the radio. It was saying something that I thought you should hear,” Follows-Chalk said. From his side he withdrew a small handheld radio and offered it to Joshua. He arched his eyebrows and accepted it, flipping it on and holding it in his weathered hand. Follows-Chalk stood by his side as they listened to the broadcast.

        “— _absolutely incredible breaking news folks, you aren’t going to believe your eyes. Or ears, I guess, but you probably won’t believe those either_.”

        It was that broadcaster from New Vegas that Joshua had once caught snippets of during his travels. He leaned forward, watching the radio with interest; he was surprised that the signal was even accessible this far from the Mojave. He had braced his hand against the sandy ground beside him and something sharp and metal caught against his forefinger. He leaned to the side and scrubbed at the earth. Beneath his hand was a blunted bullet, buried in the soil. He scooped it out of the ground, idly rubbing it between his fingers as he continued to listen.

        “ _—today, Joan has released the first of the ‘Synthetic People’. That’s right folks, that wasn’t a stutter, it’s not just a rumor—the real deal. A synthesized and completely manufactured human being, made right here in the Mojave. Isn’t that the craziest news you’ve just about heard? In the last week or so anyway. That’s desert life for you—everything gets stranger and stranger every day_.”

        Following the weathered voice of the announcer was Joan herself, crackling loudly through the speaker. She was speaking at length about her synthesized people, created and born within a lab below the Lucky 38, and what that meant for the future of the Mojave. _Just like real people_ , she reiterated proudly.

        Joshua sucked in a hard breath, staring down at the radio. The spent bullet he had been idly rolling between his fingers was now inside his curled fist. He stood up quickly and Follows-Chalk stepped away from him.

        “Synthesized people?” he murmured.

        The two continued to listen to the program as the sky above grew darker and colder.

        “ _What made you want to create the Synths, Joan?”_

_“I don’t believe it was mere fortune that led the technology to create the Synths to me. Now more than ever, we need them. This was truly a calling from God.”_

        Follows-Chalk stood close to Joshua, staring wide eyed at the radio in Joshua’s blackened and scarred hand.

        “… Good Lord,” Follows-Chalk murmured before turning to face Joshua. “That’s pretty wild, eh?”

        Joshua’s face was unreadable, even the small band that was unobscured by bandages.

        Follows-Chalk flinched as the muscles of Joshua’s forearm abruptly tensed as he slammed the radio to the ground where it shattered, scattering bits of plastic, circuitry and wire across the desert sand. Though they were nearly the same height, Follows-Chalk seemed to shrink beneath him, his eyes wide.

        “That’s… beyond disgusting,” Joshua growled, twisting away and facing back out into the cold desert night. How dare she. After all that he had taught her, that they had shared together. It was foul enough that she continued to peddle filth on the New Vegas Strip, to continue to abuse the chems that he knew she still favored. That she would presume to play God, after all that He had done to spare her, she was going to throw His work in His face?

        Naturally the degenerate people of New Vegas saw no issue with this, proudly boasting about it on their radio broadcast. To them it must seem some novelty, but to Joshua it was as if she had spat directly in his face. This was an affront to God. To everything that they had held dear, or that at least he thought she had. Joshua spun back around, striding quickly toward Santa Rosa once again.

        “Gather the men,” he commanded. Follows-Chalk jogged to keep up with his pace.

        “Maybe—maybe it’s not so bad, Joshua, maybe the radio lied?” Follows-Chalk suggested nervously. Joshua brushed the idea away with his hand.

        “No. I know her. She was up to something when we last met, and she wouldn’t tell me what it was. Though I can hardly believe it… it sounds _exactly_ like something she would do.”

        Despite the fury that coursed through his veins at this news—this despicable and sickening news—there was a part of him that felt a fresh wave of invigoration. He had been looking nearly desperately down the path ahead and suddenly it was brightly illuminated for him. He did not need to wander in the darkness again. Instead he saw now the shining bright lights that he had only lain eyes on from a distance—the lights of the city of New Vegas.

        There was one other thing of interest for him there, it occurred to him now; New Canaan might have been razed to the ground, his home robbed from him, but there was another great legacy to his people.

        Some of that land had been bought and founded by them, centuries ago. Land that he felt entitled to now, in light of everything that had happened.

        The Old Mormon Fort.


	11. It's a Trip

Chapter 11: It’s a Trip

_When you've gotten what you want, maybe I should start over; there's nothing left to want, up and at 'em again_

        There was no dust in the air, no screaming, the earth did not quake beneath Joshua’s feet as he led his army through Boulder City. He looked around openly at the collapsed and crumbling buildings. The first light of dawn was just cresting distantly over the horizon, casting bright blue and purple shadows over the ghost town; it looked quite different from the last time he was here. Follows-Chalk stepped over a scattering of bones on the ground, looking around and taking in the wrecked city.

        “Joan was not kidding… Hoover Dam was very impressive,” Follows-Chalk said slowly. His eyes were still darting around in awe. Joshua looked over at him and saw on his face a curiosity that he didn’t look quite brave enough to entertain. He could practically feel the young man burning to ask about his time as Edward’s Legate. Joshua turned forward again, continuing their march as swaths of his Canaanites cut through the destroyed city ahead, scouting for those machines that Joan employed to defend the Mojave. All but the first few they had encountered had been passive toward him and his people—he wondered if Joan was watching their journey from the New Vegas Strip and had ordered them to stand down.

        That would have been wise of her, he thought.

***

        The last dozen or so hours of their march passed quickly and soon enough Joshua and his men were standing at the great gates of the city. New Vegas. He had never been to the city himself—all his knowledge of the place came from the Frumentarii, much of it coming from Vulpes Inculta directly. How fitting, he thought dryly, that for everything that had happened it would not be either Edward or Vulpes to finally conquer New Vegas: but himself.

        He wasted no time and pushed open the unguarded gates; he was still furious with Joan, still disappointed in her that she would have turned away from what she had learned, what he had taught her. He was eager to get this over and done with. He prayed that she would be reasonable and listen to him but he knew that she was capable of being remarkably obstinate and willful, even towards him. Still, he had faith that she could be swayed peacefully—if not by his words then surely by the presence of his Canaanites.

        Stretching ahead of him was a broad crumbling street. FREESIDE, the blinking and flashing signs read. Joshua looked around warily. He hadn’t been surprised that the outskirts of the city had been empty and desolate, figuring most people to live within the gated walls. The city was almost eerily abandoned looking though. Nothing at all like Vulpes had ever described to him. Briefly he cast his mind back to Boulder City, to the first time he had tried to pass through—he hesitated, one foot held tentatively over the threshold of the gate.

        “Scouts,” he called over his shoulder. “Go investigate the streets ahead.”

        Immediately a swarm of men obeyed him, dashing past Joshua eagerly, their dark eyes lit up with the buildings and lights. Joshua stepped back and watched them as they checked out the streets, kicking aside trash cans and upending tables. The sun was low in the sky now. Not that he thought that she would but… If Joan had been silently preparing some sort of trap or ambush for him, she would have had ample time to do so. She might have been naïve at times, and he knew that she cared for him more than she rightly should, but he didn’t think she would willingly let a thousand or so men enter the Mojave completely unopposed. He was almost surprised she hadn’t met him personally yet—there was no way she didn’t know he was here.

        Joshua and the rest of the Canaanites hung back as the scouts dismantled nearly everything that wasn’t nailed down in the streets of Freeside. After a long while they finally reported back to him.

        “Nothing, ja. No bombs, no explosives, no mines, nothing, Joshua,” one of the men said to him. “No people either. We could see them looking down at us through the windows, but… Nothing.”

        Joshua narrowed his eyes, scanning the streets for himself. There obviously were people here, but they did nothing. Just hidden away. Strange.

        His eyes came to rest on the enormous gates of the Old Mormon Fort and he licked his lips. It seemed nearly too good to be true that the people of New Vegas weren’t putting up any resistance, but he wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth about it either. Joan knew him well enough he thought; she must have warned them to leave him alone. Darkly he thought it was fitting that she would have had more respect for him that she clearly had for God above.

        “Alright, let’s move forward,” he said, tilting his head up. He allowed himself a small smile beneath his bandages. Immediately the crowd behind him jostled and they proceeded at last through the city gates.

        Joshua looked longingly at the Old Mormon Fort as they passed it. Soon, he thought. With the Legion destroyed he longed to settle back down again. He still felt spry, young—vigorous even—but the grim reality was that he was finally starting to feel his years in spite of it all: the stiffness in his knees and spine as he woke up every morning, that after a battle he would require a few days of rest to return to normal again; his shoulder still dully ached from where he had pulled the muscle during the last stoning. He had certainly held on to his faculties much longer than Edward had, but he knew it couldn’t last forever. He wanted the life he had enjoyed in New Canaan—he wanted that life for his Canaanites. He didn’t know what had ever become of Daniel and the splinter of the Sorrows that he had taken with him, but it was clear that they had never reestablished New Canaan or anything close to it. Joshua was proud to serve what he hoped would be his last calling, his final mission: to create a new home for his people, to revive the legacy that had been passed down to him through generations of strife and hardship. He had done many things that he was not proud of—that he knew he would have to answer for when this life finally drew to an end—but he could at least fulfill this much for them.

        As he and his men walked the empty streets of Freeside, working their way toward the enormous and lit buildings of the New Vegas Strip, a door opened and a group of young men streamed out. Joshua’s hand immediately drifted to his hip as he saw that they were armed with guns and baseball bats. Every man was dressed in the same manner: each wore dingy white shirts and thick leather jackets emblazoned with crowns. Their hair was coiffed forward and oily, as black as pitch. There couldn’t have been more than ten or fifteen of them.

        “What the fuck are you doin’, man,” one of them called out to him, his bat raised in Joshua’s direction. Immediately behind him the door burst open again and a different man leaned out and shouted at them, his face pale.

        “You goddamn idiots, get back in here!”

        The young man with the baseball bat spun around, his face contorted with rage.

        “Fuck no! We’re just gonna sit in there while this mummy lookin’ asshole rolls into _our_ town, our fucking city? I’m not a goddamn coward! You can tell the King to suck my dick, I’m not letting some punk fuckin’ savages—”

        The man in the open door shrieked as the young man collapsed, his baseball bat flying out of his hands and rolling across the torn pavement as blood began to pool under his body. Joshua immediately directed the aim of his pistol at the other men that surrounded him and they broke, scattering and running back toward the building they had emerged from. The man in the door cast Joshua a look of seething hatred. Joshua stared back at him and the man startled before looking away and stepping back, allowing the other men to charge into the building. The door slammed shut after them and Joshua could hear knocking sounds on the other side, as if they were barring the door and dragging heavy things in front of it.

        “Looks like some of them are not so smart,” Follows-Chalk said. He was still trailing close behind Joshua. “But this is mighty strange, hey? Why are they just hiding from us?”

        “I’m not sure,” Joshua answered him as the crowd began their march again. He turned and looked behind him—it was a tight fit but most of his men were well within the city now. It was clear at this point that Joan must be waiting for him, likely within the Strip itself; he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off about this situation. He debated sending his men to wait back in the outskirts of the city, but if she did dare to conspire against him… Her robots, Securitrons as she had called them, he could hold his own against them well enough but he couldn’t risk being overwhelmed by them. Not when he was this close. All he had to do was convince Joan to relinquish New Vegas to him; if she did as he asked he could have scouts heading back to Santa Rosa tomorrow to fetch the women.

        “Some are smarter than they look,” Follows-Chalk continued with a small smile. “I think I would hide too if I were in their place.”

        Joshua chuckled and they continued down Fremont Street. After a short while the gates of the Strip loomed over them. It was guarded by a number of Securitrons, which Joshua decided to go ahead and destroy. They went down easily. Joshua didn’t know anything about robots at all and wondered if they were broken or disabled in some way; they had stood totally and conveniently still as Joshua, Follows-Chalk and a few others burned through a couple dozen rounds destroying them. It had been only slightly more effort to destroy the ones that had actively resisted back at Flagstaff.

        At last the gates were clear. Joshua held up a hand and signaled to his army.

        “If I know Joan,” he began, speaking in Res, “then she’s probably on the other side of this gate. She lives in that big tower just up ahead. Ideally she won’t put up any resistance to what I’m about to tell her. Stand down and wait for further orders.”

        The enormous crowd behind him murmured as it passed on his words, making sure his instructions reached all the way to the back. As one they stepped backward and gave Joshua and Follows-Chalk space.

        “You really think she will do what you ask?” Follows-Chalk asked him quietly, speaking in English again.

        “I do,” Joshua replied. “I know her well—I think if I asked her to jump off Hoover Dam she’d strongly consider it.”

        They finally rolled open the gates of the New Vegas Strip.

        The Strip was dazzling at this time; the sun had freshly set, leaving the sky brightly cobalt over them. Each building was blazing with an array of lights and signage, blinking and flashing garishly, just as Vulpes had described to him long ago. Though he had never possessed any particular urge to enter New Vegas before he had always held a curiosity about the area that his ancestors had helped found and grow. Through the stench of booze and tobacco, the tacky displays, the sin that seemed to cling from every wall, slicking the ground itself… it felt like returning home. It wasn’t New Canaan now, not yet, but he could see the possibility in it, what it _could_ be.

        The Strip was devoid of life, save for one person. As he had expected, Joan herself stood in the middle of the street, waiting for him. She had a thin black cane propped in front of her and was leaning heavily on it. She was dressed as she had always been: her red tie peeked out from behind the black panels of her suit, her dark sunglasses still rested on her small sharp nose just below her desperado hat. She still wore the Pipboy on her left arm. The only observable change was the bandages laced around her ankles and feet, disappearing under the small black dress shoes she wore. She stared at him as he passed through the gates and approached her. He and Follows-Chalk maintained a civil distance, coming to a stop several feet away from her.

        “You look surprisingly well,” Joshua greeted her conversationally. Joan appeared to be nervous; she looked away from him, her eyes darting around the vacant Strip.

        “What do you want?” she demanded. He stood straighter, looking down at her.

        “You obviously know I’m here for a reason,” he said. The time for pleasantries had passed. She looked back at him with her eyes narrowed.

        “No one drops by for dinner with an army in tow—now get on with it. What have you come here for?”

        Joshua returned her gaze and swept his arm out at the enormous building in front of him. The Lucky 38.

        “You have to stop this. Those… _things_. The Synthetic people. It’s wrong,” he said, staring hard at her. She stiffened and he continued speaking.

        “You have to know that. I gave you the scripture myself, and I’ve seen you reading it in nearly every spare moment you had. You know that this is a disgusting slap in the face of God; cease production of your abominations and destroy the monsters you’ve already created.”

        “Absolutely not!” she snapped at him. His eyebrows shot up briefly before lowering again and he felt that familiar shivery sensation washing over his shoulders and arms. He took a deep breath.

        “Do you even know what I’ve done to achieve them? What I’ve sacrificed, what I’ve endured… No. No, I’m not going to stop making them and I’m not going to kill the ones I do have!” Joan continued, leaning forward on her cane and breathing heavily. Joshua looked her up and down before placing his hands on his hips.

        “So you won’t listen to reason. Then you should know that my justification for being here is two-fold. Not only do I want you to denounce this apostasy—I also want this land.”

        Joan gasped and jerked one of her hands away from her cane and up to her mouth, her eyes wide.

        “You—you _what_?” she said, staring at him.

        “I don’t believe I’ve been unclear,” Joshua continued coldly, taking a step toward her. “This land is mine by birthright; my ancestors helped build up this—this den of _sin_. It once belonged to them, hundreds of years ago. With the destruction of the Legion I want to settle and rebuild New Canaan, and I want to do it here. It’s _mine_ ,” he reiterated, glaring down on her.

        “No!” she shouted at him, leaning back on the cane again, her knuckles white. Follows-Chalk hung back nervously, his tan face jerking back and forth between the two as they spoke. Joshua took another step closer to her; she shuddered but stood her ground.

        “Why… why here?”

        “New Canaan was destroyed. Yet again my people were driven out of their lands. I want only to reclaim what’s mine,” Joshua responded evenly. Joan’s small shoulders trembled and she was breathing rapidly as he continued. “I don’t think I’m asking for anything unreasonable; stop creating those _things_ , and give up New Vegas to me. The rest of the Mojave will be open to you—I want only what is mine, nothing more and nothing less. That is fair, I think.”

        Joan seemed to shiver before squaring herself and meeting his eyes with resolve.

        “Absolutely not. You have no right to come here and demand these people to leave. Just… just burn in hell!” she lashed out at him. Joshua narrowed his eyes and the shivery sensation that was building in his shoulders seemed to reach a climax. Follows-Chalk took a step back from him.

        “Fine. If you won’t see reason then know that this is going to happen whether you want it to or not,” Joshua snapped, jerking his pistol from his hip and pointing it at her forehead. Immediately Joan released her cane and it met the ground with a clatter as her hands rose defensively.

        “Wait—wait please!” she begged, taking a step backward, her eyes bright under the rapidly darkening skies. “I’m not—”

        At the first sign of pathetic weakness Joshua had hardened against her; he pulled the trigger. Her small body jerked backward before colliding against the pavement, her arms and legs thrust out awkwardly. A thin trickle of blood ran from the entry wound in her forehead, her face frozen in terror.

        “Joshua…” Follows-Chalk murmured behind him. Joshua jerked his head back to look at him, his eyes narrowed.

        “ _What_?” he demanded. Follows-Chalk was staring at him, his pale eyes wide with disbelief and something else Joshua couldn’t quite place.

        “She… she didn’t do anything to deserve that,” he said, his tattooed face finally crumpling with shock. Joshua spun back around and approached the body lying sprawled out across the ground.

        “She was creating monstrosities. Even when asked politely she wouldn’t stop. This isn’t the outcome I desired, but it’s what has come to pass,” Joshua said coolly, bending and brushing the tips of his fore and middle fingers against Joan’s pale throat. He looked down at her. Her black hair was fanned like a halo around her narrow and youthful face. He softened for a moment; this wasn’t what he had wanted to happen… but she had forced his hand. He pushed past the feeling and pressed his fingers into the pronounced vein, searching for a pulse. She had told him during her second visit to Zion that she had survived being shot in the head; he wasn’t going to take the chance that she could have been that fortunate again. There was no trace of activity beneath his blackened fingers.

        A hard whistle cut the air just above Joshua’s head.

        Follows-Chalk jumped back and let out a strangled noise of surprise as a bullet struck the ground near his feet. It had been aimed where Joshua’s head had been only a moment before, when he was still standing. Joshua immediately jerked his head up.

        At the top of the Lucky 38 was a figure, so harshly silhouetted by the bright lights of the casino that he could barely make it out. He felt its eyes on him for a tense moment before it spun and hopped off the ledge, disappearing from view. Joshua narrowed his eyes and straightened again, grasping his pistol tightly.

        “Go!” he commanded Follows-Chalk, jerking his gun at him as he dashed toward the entrance of the Lucky 38. “Tell the men to drag everyone out of their houses and casinos; don’t spare a single one of them.”

        Follows-Chalk immediately sprinted away toward the Tops casino as Joshua pried open the heavy metal doors of the Lucky 38.


	12. God's Gonna Cut You Down

Chapter 12: God’s Gonna Cut You Down

_Well, you may throw your rock and hide your hand, workin' in the dark against your fellow man; but as sure as God made black and white, what's done in the dark will be brought to the light_

        Joan bit down on her lower lip with enough force that the thin skin there threatened to break, her hands starkly white against the grip of her sniper rifle. She shuddered as she breathed in, desperately trying to steady herself and failing. Her eyes burned as she listened to the radio transmitting the events happening below her.

        “ _Wait, wait please! I’m not—”_

        The gunshot rang out painfully loud far down on the Strip below; behind her she could hear Arcade and Cass gasp in unison.

        He had shot her.

        She gripped her sniper rifle tightly enough that her hands began to ache and the muscles in her thighs and calves burned as she sat crouched on the ledge of the balcony of the Penthouse. Somewhere below the shock, the hurt, and the pain in her feet there was a blinding bright fireball of rage. The flames rose hot as a fever in her, growing from her shattered feet to her hips to her shoulders and finally seeming to erupt in her head. For an instant she stilled, as brutally composed as she had been during the Fortification Hill Massacre.

        He had shot her. Just as Benny had, as Vulpes Inculta had tried to. He had looked her dead in the eye and pulled the trigger, even as her Synthetic copy begged for her life. Despite everything that had happened between them, despite the fact that he had saved her life, had taught her the ways of the Canaanite, had educated her about God and Christ; he had shown her no mercy.

        She pulled her own trigger, her jaw clenching painfully as the rage bubbled out of her in a seething hiss between her teeth, the wetness in her eyes dangerously close to overflowing as well.

        “Holy shit,” Cass uttered from where she and Arcade stood together in the doorway, their eyes wide.

        Joan had squeezed her eyes shut as soon as she fired the shot, misery exploding through the hatred inside her. She shook as a sob nearly escaped her and her hands grew slack, her sniper rifle nearly sliding out of them. Her lips formed an anguished arc as she forced her eyes open again and looked back through the scope, the scene zigzagging wildly in her crosshairs as she struggled to keep herself together. She couldn’t bear to look at what she had done, had been forced to do, but it hurt that much more to not know for certain.

        She froze again, the fine hairs on the back of her neck rising.

        Joshua had bent double just as she had taken the shot. Distantly below she could see him pressing his fingers into the jugular of her doppelganger. She jumped as his head abruptly snapped up; as if by magnetism his eyes instantly met hers, even though she knew she couldn’t have appeared as more than a speck to him from this distance. She flinched at the frozen fire in his eyes, apparent even through the scope of her sniper rifle. Abruptly she spun and jumped off the ledge of the balcony, swiping her cane from the railing and leaning heavily on it.

        “I missed,” she uttered dazedly.

        “So he’s—shit, he’s still down there!” Arcade bleated, his eyes wide and pale behind his glasses.

        “I can’t believe it,” Joan continued, ignoring Arcade. Her head throbbed nearly as much as her feet did. “I didn’t think he would actually dare to…”

        Several days ago she had received notification from the Securitrons that guarded Hoover Dam that a mass of people was approaching from the east. She had immediately gathered up a brahmin cart and driven out there to see for herself with Arcade in tow. From atop the tallest building of the Dam she had watched an army cut a hard line through Arizona, heading straight for the Dam itself. At first she had thought that it was some fresh splinter of the Legion; she would never admit to anyone that a deeply irrational part of her feared Vulpes Inculta would be leading them, either risen from the grave to exact revenge on her or that perhaps he had survived Joshua bludgeoning him to death somehow. She didn’t know if she would have preferred the latter idea when the mass of people finally drew close enough that she could spy the deeply tanned and tattooed skin of tribals—she had found it difficult to breathe when she finally spotted Joshua at the front of them.

        She didn’t understand why at first. Why he would be leading his army, his Canaanites, into the Mojave. It was clear from their march that they weren’t coming for a social visit. She and Arcade had argued about it at the Dam as she finally decided to head back to Vegas to prepare.

        “He’s got a damn army with him,” Arcade had said, exasperated and anxious.

        “I can fucking see that,” she had replied, storming past him in her wheelchair. “I just don’t know why. The last time… the last time we saw each other he saved my life. _Why_ is he doing this!”

        “Are you that dense, Joan?” Arcade cried, throwing his hands out. “The man is a goddamn religious zealot—he stones people to death for Christ’s sake, haven’t you ever bothered reading that damn book you carry everywhere with you!”

        Joan had paused, her hand rushing to the inside of her suit reflexively.

        “Of course I have!” she snapped back at him, her face hot.

        “Then you should know that the Bible has some pretty choice words about, oh I don’t know, _playing God_? You were so insistent about introducing your Synths in the flashiest way possible, about rubbing your success in Aaron Kimball’s face, did it not occur to you that other people _also own radios_?” Arcade had thrown back shrilly, his face paler than usual. The color had washed out of Joan’s face to match his.

        So they had rushed back to New Vegas. Joan had nearly run herself ragged trying frantically to prepare. Should she mass her Securitrons against the Canaanites? That had been Cass’s suggestion—plea, really—but Joan couldn’t bring herself to do it. _I can reason with him_ , she had said to them a few days ago. _I know he’s coming with an army, I know it looks bad, but… I know him. I know him better than either of you do. I’ll talk to him. Whatever he’s looking for, we can discuss it_. Arcade and Cass hadn’t bothered with looks of pity then, each of them instead taking turns shouting at her, much like they were doing now.

        “How could you believe that son of a fucking bitch!” Cass shouted, dashing to the edge of the balcony and looking over it. Joan couldn’t bear to look at her likeness lying on the pavement; it had burned not only to see Joshua mercilessly execute her but to see how tiny and sad and pathetic she looked sprawled there, bleeding out onto the street.

        She couldn’t bear to raise her own army against Joshua, but she wasn’t blindly trusting of him either. She had bidden the residents of the Strip and Freeside—as well as the people of McCarran and the other outskirts of New Vegas—to take shelter inside their homes. Most had been unwilling to comply with this; she had to admire the fortitude of her people as they resisted against her, willing to pick up their own firearms and defend their home. Mick and Ralph had led a quite vocal mutiny against her, offering their weapons at severe discounts to anyone that wanted to stay outside and protect the city against the Burned Man. Eventually Joan had been forced to utilize her Securitrons against them—for their safety and protection they had been hauled down into Vault 21 and locked away. They had been angrier than she had perhaps ever seen them but she stood firm, promising them that they would be allowed free once the threat was taken care of. She knew she could reason with Joshua; she had no illusions that Joshua would be so forgiving of the strangers in the city he already looked down on.

        In the end most of the residents of Freeside had been ushered into Vault 21. The Kings had staunchly decided to remain, offering to keep an eye out and assist her if she absolutely required it. She hadn’t been happy about letting them stay but eventually the King himself had persuaded her that they would merely act as a last resort to her plans if they were allowed to keep their freedom. They had looked after Freeside for so long that she couldn’t bear to refuse him.

        “I told you!” Arcade shouted at Joan as she hobbled through the Penthouse, making her way to the wall of terminals that comprised Yes Man. “Do you finally see now that Joshua Graham is not a _very fucking nice person_?”

        “I fucking know that,” Joan snapped back at him, entering the doorway that led to Yes Man. “I just watched him gun down my goddamn Synth, trust me, I’m aware!”

        When Joshua had pushed through Hoover Dam and Boulder City that morning she had frozen, the situation abruptly taking on a stark reality in her mind. Perhaps because as she watched him march into the Mojave, for an instant she didn’t see Joshua at all; she saw the Malpais Legate. Instead of tribals he was leading a Legion of men clad in blood red sporting equipment. She decided then that she would reason with him; but as insurance she would use her synthetic doppelganger. The one Synth she had not debuted at her presentation, the first she had made: a copy of herself recreated in exacting detail, using her own DNA as a foundation.

        As soon as Shaun had told her back in Boston that he had recreated his mother, June Rockwell, she had instantly been intrigued. As her maiden Synth, the Eve to her Lilith, she had decided to recreate herself. It had seemed an ingenious idea at the time; she knew that there could still be spies from the Legion in the Mojave, even if they didn’t have anyone to report to anymore. She knew that the NCR was quite unhappy with her. If someone were to attempt an assassination on her—or worse, try to kidnap her for whatever purpose… she wasn’t going to endure that again.

        So she had recreated herself. She had personally educated the Synth on what she was like, how she ought to speak, how she ought to move, to carry herself. Her Synth was every bit as keenly intelligent and bright as Joan was, although much more obediently meek. She had taken in everything Joan had to teach her like a sponge. The past day had been spent nearly constantly in the Synth’s company, instructing her on how to speak to Joshua Graham, what to say to him if he did in fact tell her to stop creating the Synths. She had been outfitted in one of Joan’s spare suits and given an old broken Pipboy that had been hollowed out, its innards replaced with a radio and receiver. Joan had blushed furiously as she spoke with blunt honesty but pushed forward, wanting her copy to be so meticulously exact that even Joshua would be fooled by her.

        And it had worked.

        Joan buried her face in her hand, adrenaline keeping the worst of the misery at bay. Joshua had murdered her. What he had perceived to be her, but it was the same thing. After everything they had shared together… her face crumpled beneath her hands as she thought back to him pressing the scripture into them all those years ago. He had bidden her to walk in love—and this was what she had sown.

        “I knew that fucker was no good,” Cass growled, pacing wildly around the Penthouse, swinging her arms with frantic energy.

        “I think we’ve got bigger troubles right now!” Yes Man cut in loudly. All three halted and looked up at his screen. Though he still smiled he radiated panic.

        “Ma’am! The—the um… Joshua Graham, he’s entered the Lucky 38 casino!” Yes Man continued anxiously. “I just thought you should know!”

        Behind the three of them the elevator dinged. The three stared at the sigil of the Lucky 38 with wide eyes as they listened to the elevator rumble to life, descending from the Penthouse.

        “Holy shit,” Arcade murmured, scraping his fingers through his hair. Joan shivered. Joshua would be here in a matter of minutes. She spun and looked around the room. Beside her, Cass was yanking her shotgun from its holster. Arcade’s arm moved in a jerky arc as he pulled his plasma pistol from his lab coat. Yes Man continued to silently watch over them.

        “I can still talk to him,” Joan said quickly. Arcade’s jaw dropped.

        “Are you actually insane!”

        Joan leaned heavily on her cane, sweat trickling down her brow as he continued.

        “The man just shot you. You cannot possibly be so—so fucking naïve to think he would listen to you after all of that!”

        “That wasn’t me. _I_ can reason with him,” Joan snapped, glaring up at Arcade. “I would have handled the situation down there differently. I—I didn’t have enough time to work with my Synth, she didn’t handle it as well as I would have.”

        Cass glared at her.

        “That’s so fucking stupid, Joan. The man literally just invaded us. He fucking killed what he thought was you! Do you seriously not finally see that he’s a goddamn monster!” she shouted before pausing, her expression hardening.

        “We’ve got to take care of him while he’s here. Yes Man,” Cass continued as she spun around, facing the wall of terminals. “Was he alone as he came in?”

        “Yes, Cass, he’s unaccompanied,” Yes Man replied quickly.

        “Then _good_ ,” Cass said lowly, double checking that her shotgun was loaded. “There’s three of us. Four, if Yes Man enters his Securitron. We can take him. He’s one fucking man, we can do this.”

        Joan balked and Cass whipped around to glare at her.

        “Don’t even fucking _consider_ telling us not to fight back. Whatever… whatever fucking _thing_ you had with him, I’m not dying for it. If that bastard thinks he’s going to walk in here and kill all of us, then I hope he knows he’s got a goddamn fight ahead of him.”

        “That’s not what I’m worried about,” Joan said. Distantly she could hear the elevator begin to ascend and panic stabbed through her. She wasn’t worried at all about Cass and Arcade hurting Joshua; with an abrupt certainty she knew that he would kill them. They wouldn’t begin to stand a chance against him. She blinked and for a flash saw Vulpes Inculta smashing into the doorframe of her cell in Arizona, sagging and crying out in pain.

        She clenched her hand into a fist over her cane. _Please God_ , she prayed quickly. _Please watch out for all of us. Even Joshua. But please… Please watch over Arcade and Cass._

        Joan spun back around to Yes Man.

        “Yes Man, enter your Securitron,” she commanded. Immediately the empty Securitron wheeled over to the terminal and in a moment it turned back around, the mass of terminals blank and Yes Man’s face brightly illuminating its screen. Cass and Arcade audibly sighed with relief.

        “Yes Man, carry Arcade and Cass down the back elevator into Vault 21,” Joan ordered, her fingers icy. Cass and Arcade both shrieked in unison.

        “ _WHAT_!”

        Even Yes Man jerked, his arms flailing helplessly.

        “Ma’am, you—you obviously know best, but this is an _incredibly unwise_ decision!”

        Joan steeled herself, briefly letting go of her cane to jerk her scarred pointer finger at the archway that led to the second elevator. The ice had begun to spread up her arms but she ignored it; she cared too deeply about Cass and Arcade to allow them to be hurt by Joshua. He had been willing to kill even herself—it was a gamble she was unwilling to take. When she had renovated Vault 21 she had taken a few precautions that even House had never thought of: beneath the city was a web of tunnels that all fed back to the Vault, in case of emergency. A few key buildings had been selected to feed into it: each of the casinos on the Strip, the King’s School, the Old Mormon Fort; and of course, the Lucky 38.

        “That is an _order_ , Yes Man,” Joan said, the shrillness of her voice betraying her nerves. “You can’t refuse me!”

        And he could not. Against what will Yes Man possessed he wheeled toward Arcade and Cass and they immediately tried to dash away from him.

        “Joan, this is—what are you thinking!” Arcade shouted as Yes Man curved one of his metal arms around his waist, dragging him toward the second elevator. His gun slipped out of his grasp and clattered to the floor. Cass had been snatched up in a similar fashion and was striking in futility at Yes Man with the butt of her shotgun.

        “I’m so sorry Arcade, Cass,” Yes Man said, wheeling them through the archway. Joan hobbled after them, making sure her orders were followed. “I _really_ don’t want to do this! But my programming dictates that I have to do whatever Joan tells me, even if I think it’s _really_ _stupid_!”

        Joan’s lips curved downward as Yes Man hauled them into the elevator. Yes Man spun around and they faced her as the elevator doors began to slide shut. Joan leaned forward, watching them; Arcade and Cass were staring back, their looks of fury disappearing into fear.

        “Joan, no!” Cass shrieked. “He’s going to fucking kill you!”

        “Don’t do this!” Arcade shouted, struggling against Yes Man’s arm, slapping his hands against it and trying to pry it away from him.

        “This is for your own good,” Joan said, her eyes stinging. “I’m going to talk to Joshua. I promise everything will work out.” She hesitated, the doors nearly shut. “Watch over them, Yes Man! I care about all three of you—I hope you understand.”

        The doors slid shut just as the main elevator out in the lobby pinged with Joshua Graham’s arrival.


	13. 21 Guns

Chapter 13: 21 Guns

_Did you try to live on your own when you burned down the house and home? Did you stand too close to the fire? Like a liar looking for forgiveness from a stone_

        Joan wheezed, her feet searing and screaming with pain. She hadn’t been on them this long since before they had been smashed with the hammers. Still, she forced herself to lurch out into the main room of the Penthouse, the wall of terminals to her left. Her wheelchair was out in the lobby; it might as well have been in Boston for all the good it was doing her. Just as she rounded the corner of the archway Joshua stepped out of the elevator, his bandaged head jerking around and scanning the room in front of him.

        “Here,” Joan said raggedly. Joshua’s head turned and she met his eyes. They immediately narrowed and he quickly proceeded down the short staircase. Joan tried to match his pace, only making a handful of steps before he was standing directly in front of her. She tilted her head to look up at him.

        “You tricked me,” Joshua said heatedly, thrusting his bandaged arm back toward the elevator. “That… _thing_. That was one of your synthetic monstrosities wasn’t it?”

        “Not a bad one, if it managed to fool even you,” Joan said, wincing through the agony in her feet and calves. Joshua glared at her before his expression shifted, taking on a nasty edge.

        “I suppose I should have known better. That thing must have been standing out there for a while waiting on me,” he said, placing his hands on his hips. “Your feet. Of course. You wouldn’t have been able to stand on them for that long. It’s practically a miracle that you’re standing right now.”

        “You have no fucking idea,” Joan wheezed. She desperately wanted to hobble past Joshua and retrieve her wheelchair but he stood firm in front of her, walling her off from the rest of the suite. She stared at him before casting her eyes down at her burning feet; she slipped her hand inside her suit jacket and pulled out the slim metal case containing her Med-X.

        She had barely withdrawn it when Joshua ripped the case out of her hand and hurled it at the wall where it shattered, a spray of needles raining onto the tile floor in a cascade of clicks. She glared back up at him.

        “Synth or not, she didn’t tell you anything I wouldn’t have fucking said myself,” she snapped. “I’m not going to stop making the Synths and I’m _damn_ sure not giving you New Vegas.”

        “Why are you being so stubborn about this?” Joshua said, narrowing his eyes again. “Destroy those things and repent. Give me back the land that belongs to me. This doesn’t have to be difficult.”

        “I need those fucking Synths after you destroyed half of my goddamn army of Securitrons back at Flagstaff!” Joan barked back up at him.

        “Those robots attacked _us_. My tribe was defending itself.”

        Joan faltered; he had made a point that she couldn’t refute.

        “Fine, so you were defending yourselves then. That doesn’t erase my need for an army. The NCR is pretty unhappy with me; they want to make a move on Vegas sometime in the future and I have to be prepared for that. They still want Hoover Dam.”

        “Then they can fight _me_ for it,” Joshua replied darkly.

        “You’re not taking New Vegas from me!”

        “Who are you to stop me from taking the land that’s mine?” he shot back, leaning toward her, his hands still firmly planted on his hips.

        “It’s not your fucking land! This land belongs to the people of New Vegas. I don’t even know why you want it anyway—I thought you were over _the civilized lands_ ,” she sneered, matching his lean and glaring at him. “Besides, how the fuck is this land _yours_?”

        “You hoard this land so stubbornly yet you don’t even know its history!” Joshua swelled, his eyes bright and cold. “Centuries ago this land was inhabited by my people; why else do you think they call it the _Old Mormon Fort_?”

        Joan’s mouth was agape. For all the years she had lived in New Vegas and for all the time she had spent thinking about Joshua, missing him; it had never once occurred to her that there was a connection there. The Old Mormon Fort had been so inextricably intertwined with the Followers of the Apocalypse in her mind that it seemed they had always resided there. Joshua raked his palm over the side of his face as he watched the comprehension dawn on her. She recomposed herself, her face hot as she watched him.

        “That still doesn’t make it yours,” she seethed. “So fucking what? You had some ancestors that lived here hundreds of years ago. That doesn’t make you any more entitled to it than I am.”

        Joshua had placed his hand back on his hip and his gaze hardened again.

        “I would say that it makes the man with the bigger stick entitled to it then,” he said icily. “You just told me yourself that you don’t possess anything to back you up. You know for a fact that _I_ do.”

        “What about Zion,” Joan cut in quickly, apprehension welling at the way he was staring at her: coldly blank, much like the night he had burned her. “Why do you insist on New Vegas? You have Zion. No one would bother you there, it’s far from civilization… it was perfect there,” she trailed off, sorrow leaching into the dazed fury she felt. She had been so happy in Zion.

        “Zion is inappropriate for us now,” Joshua said, some of the hardness bleeding from his expression. “We have grown too large to live sustainably there. Besides… Zion is a temple to God. It should be preserved and protected, cherished for the Holy Land that it is. Even though I trust my people, I know what sullies mankind eventually brings to all good places. We need to live somewhere else. Zion will always be the home of my heart—but in a more practical sense I require somewhere for my people to lay their heads at night.

        “I don’t wish to fight forever, Joan. I want my people to settle and grow, rebuild New Canaan, establish themselves to continue to spread the word of God.” Joshua paused and his eyes froze over once more.

        “This land is my heritage whether you like it or not. And I am _taking_ it. You know me well enough to know that this is no idle threat: if you don’t relinquish this land to me then I’ll see every single man, woman, and child dragged out of here, by lethal force if you foolishly insist.”

        Joan stared at him as he spoke, the pain in her feet temporarily overwhelmed. Her fingers ached against the curved bend of the top of her cane.

        “How could you…” she began before snapping, her chest bursting with the frantic buzzing unleashed inside of it.

        “How could you fucking do this! _I loved you_!”

        The room seemed to squeeze around them and Joan immediately flushed bright and red, from her neck to her ears. Even Joshua seemed to be taken aback by this; he had taken a half step back from her, his eyebrows arched high. Joan was breathing heavily and her shoulders slumped as she bore down on her cane, the aching thrumming up her forearms now. Joshua stepped forward again; she looked back up at him and flinched.

        “You don’t _love_ me.”

        Joan sharply inhaled as her eyes darted back and forth between his own.

        “How on earth can you profess to love me? We barely know each other,” he said coldly. “You’ve latched onto this—this childish _infatuation_ with me. I can’t even believe you’ve sustained it somehow after all these years. What would you even know of _love_ , surrounded by your robots and your inhuman abominations?”

        “I thought you… but, the things you said to me,” she began, her eyes pricking uncomfortably. “Back in Flagstaff. About the fire inside…” To her own ears she sounded dreadfully young and foolish and she flushed deeply, staring up at him. Joshua looked surprised again before his eyes resumed their steely hardness.

        “Don’t mistake basic human kindness for anything more than what it was. I didn’t say anything to you that I wouldn’t have said to anyone else.”

        Joan’s chin crinkled as she looked up at him, her eyes burning, threatening to let loose the well of wetness that had gathered there. Her chest ached and she found it hard to draw in the next breath. Joshua seemed to soften somewhat as he watched her.

        “I will afford you some mercy,” he began. “Gather your things and leave. Leave New Vegas. Take all of your people with you, all of your belongings, everything of worth or value. If you give New Vegas to me willingly then there won’t have to be further bloodshed. Return to me what is rightfully mine and you’re all free to go.”

        Through the pain Joan’s stomach clenched like a fist and she glared at him, unconcerned with the tears streaming down her face. Her knuckles were white against her thin black cane as she swelled with fury.

        “ _No_ ,” she snarled, her voice rapidly rising in pitch and volume. “THIS IS _MY_ HOME AND THESE ARE _MY_ PEOPLE AND WE AREN’T GOING ANYWHERE!”

        Joshua seemed to explode, throwing his arms out and glaring back at her.

        “Fine! Fine then!” he spat back, striding closer and looking down on her, rage burning in his eyes as his hands balled into fists. “If you’re so determined to hold onto this patch of land then you and the rest of your people can die in it!”

        Joan broke, stepping backward and staring up at him as he loomed over her, her eyes wide. Joshua’s eyes were bright and wild, the scarred flesh around them angrily reddened with malice. Her heart thrashed in her chest; he had just threatened to murder not only her but thousands of people he had never met, never so much as lain eyes on. Innocent people. All because she wouldn’t give in to his demands. Because she wouldn’t obey him. She pressed her lips together into a thin white line.

        She didn’t stand a chance against him. Salt-Upon-Wounds and the White Legs certainly hadn’t. Nor had the multitude of tribes he had conquered under Caesar as his Legate. The Canaanites were entirely within her city and what remained of her Securitrons wouldn’t stand a chance against them either. Even if every single able bodied man and woman in New Vegas rose up against Joshua she knew they wouldn’t hold a candle to the highly militarized army in front of them. She had watched Joshua train them with her own two eyes; her people would be as the Nephites, helplessly exterminated by the Lamanites in spite of all that had transpired between them. He was going to kill them all to get his way.

        She could not allow that to happen.

        “So that’s how it is then,” she said slowly, meeting Joshua’s eyes again as the cazadors burned away into brightness within her chest. Joshua had withdrawn his pistol from its holster but stilled, watching her. “You might be right. I might not love you. I might have idolized you instead and saw something that I only thought was there…

        “But I _do_ love the people of New Vegas,” she continued, fortifying herself as she thrust her hand into the pocket of her suit. Joshua stared at her, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.

        “I love them more than you could ever comprehend—and I won’t let you hurt them.”

        From her pocket she produced the Platinum Chip. She stared at it numbly as she lifted her left arm, drawing her Pipboy up in front of her. As though she had stepped outside of herself she saw her scarred finger push the Platinum Chip into the minute slot that had been roughly carved into the metal casing, just wide enough to accommodate it. It slid in until it disappeared with a hard click, locked into place.

        Immediately the electricity died in the Lucky 38, casting them into darkness. Shrieks and shouts of chaos erupted outside, and she could feel Joshua glare at her for a moment before dashing away and thundering up the stairs, rushing to the entrance of the balcony that overlooked the Strip. Joan hobbled after him as fast as she could, pushing through the agony in her feet.

        “What have you just done?” Joshua turned to her as she finally arrived by his side on the balcony. The Strip was black but far from silent; below them the Canaanites were shouting and moving in a writhing frenzied mass, frantically pounding at the gates that had slammed shut when Joan inserted the Platinum Chip into her Pipboy. Distantly a siren began to sound, growing louder and louder, piercing the star studded skies above. Joshua grabbed Joan’s arm and his reddened fingers dug in painfully. Joan stared numbly down at the crowd of people before turning her eyes back to him.

        The last thing she registered was his arm drawing back before everything flashed hard white behind her eyes, blindingly bright and searing.

        Joan coughed and spat—something warm and wet dribbled from her mouth and she swiped at it, wincing at the explosion of pain in her jaw and cheekbone. Dazedly she blinked; Joshua’s snakeskin shoes stood next to her and she briefly squinted up at him from where she was laying on the floor. He was blurred. She coughed again before leaning over and spitting something out with a groan of pain; under the pale moonlight a single blood slicked tooth fell from her mouth. She fumbled beside herself, her fingers dusting across the tiled floor of the balcony until she finally found her glasses. She slid them back onto her face and looked up at Joshua again, blinking rapidly, her cheekbone burning.

        “What did you just do?” he reiterated hotly. Joan’s head pounded. She hauled herself up on her palms and swiped at her mouth again, staining the cuff of her sleeve red.

        “I’m doing what has to be done,” she said. Her mouth already felt swollen and puffy, her tongue awkward against the new arrangement of her teeth. “I won’t let you hurt a single one of _my_ fucking people.”

        Joshua arched his brows at her, his eyes burning into hers as she watched him.

        “So what have you done then? Locked them all into their casinos; their whore houses?” he asked snidely.

        “No,” Joan replied, pushing her glasses further up the bridge of her nose. “This is a failsafe that I created years ago. That if the Legion… or anyone else… posed a severe enough threat to New Vegas that I thought there was going to be a massive loss of life or enslavement…”

        Around them a robotic voice came to life over the announcement system of the Lucky 38 and the Strip, instigating a countdown of ten minutes. Joshua’s pale eyes widened.

        “I modified my Pipboy. A trigger has been remotely connected to the reactor beneath the Lucky 38. At the end of that countdown the reactor is going to detonate,” Joan continued, her hands growing cold.

        “I might not be able to save the land of New Vegas… but my people will survive.”


	14. Dead Moon

Chapter 14: Dead Moon

_The roof caved in and the drugs wore out and then God came down and he kissed my mouth; he said ‘it's all my fault’ and he began to shout: save me, save me, save me_

        “You did _what,_ ” he shouted, bending over and seizing her upper arm, hauling her to her knees. She sagged, the pain in her face and legs throbbing and coursing through the rest of her body. He immediately released her and she fell again, scrambling to right herself.

        She looked up at him as she fumbled onto her palms. He had withdrawn his pistol—nearly identical to her own—and it was pointed at her forehead. She sniffed loudly and swiped at her eyes, her cheek stinging.

        “I’m sorry.”

        Joshua halted, staring down at her. Joan pressed her face into her palms and began to weep.

        “I’m so sorry,” she whispered through the gaps in her fingers. She shuddered to breathe in, her chest burning. She broke out into choking sobs as she continued to speak.

        “Dear God, I’ve made so many mistakes. I’ve hurt so many people… I’ve lied, I’ve betrayed, I’ve killed innocents… God, please forgive me!” she cried. She thought of everyone who had suffered at her hands: multiple chapters of the Brotherhood of Steel, the Great Khans, Veronica, Lee Oliver, Boone. She had hurt so many people, for reasons that had seemed so necessary, so justified at the time. Her throat burned as she prayed to God: that he would show her an iota of mercy for all the cruelty that she had shown; for all the people she had wronged.

        Joshua watched her as she finally parted her fingers and looked up at him, her face streaked with tears.

        “I’m sorry, Joshua.”

        She lowered her hands, forcing herself to meet his eyes. “I really did love you. I only ever wanted to help you… but I was wrong. Daniel was right. You didn’t need someone to...” she trailed off, burying her face in her hands again. “How can it all seem so clear now? I was such a fucking idiot.”

        Within her closed eyes she could see Zion. Through the clarity of time and distance she could starkly see how desperately she had failed Joshua. That in his time of need, she had been exactly the wrong thing for him. She had perceived him to be much like she was: a fresh faced young leader trying to carve out a spot in the world. Looking back she instead saw someone much like an addict. She had stoked the fire alright, stoked it by casting accelerant onto it; if he was an alcoholic she had thrust a bottle of whiskey under his nose and told him to drink for her health. He had already lived a life of cruelty as the Malpais Legate, which she had always endeavored to ignore; Joshua did not need to be instructed to follow his darker impulses.

        “If I had just… If I had just encouraged you,” she said, weeping again. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

        Joshua stood motionless as he watched her.

        “I understand if you want to kill me,” Joan said quietly, looking up at Joshua and meeting his eyes again. “I know I deserve it. I just… I hope you know how sorry I am. I thought I had done right by you. That was all I ever tried to do for you, for everyone. I hope you can forgive me.”

        She slipped her fingers inside her suit and withdrew her bible, cradling it in her hands as she continued to gaze up at him, her eyes swollen and red, but dry now. Her chest still shuddered with unwept tears but she was determined to face what she had sown; it was the least she could do for Joshua.

        Several long moments passed between the two, the countdown above drawing them closer and closer to the inevitable.

        Joshua lowered his gun. Joan continued to stare into his eyes. They were less bright, settling back into the neutral expression he usually wore. He looked more like the Joshua she had known in Zion.

        “Is there any way to undo this?” he asked her quietly. His pistol hung slack in his hand. Joan sniffed again.

        “No. When you were coming up to the Penthouse I sent Yes Man and my friends away to the Vault. I was afraid you would hurt them. When I activated the detonator it cut power to the entire Strip and Freeside…” she trailed off, unable to suppress a small sad laugh. “Without Yes Man there is no undoing this. All radio communications have been cut. If the Legion… or whoever, had pushed my hand into doing this, I didn’t want them to be able to radio for help or assistance. So I can’t even reach Yes Man through my Pipboy. We’re trapped.”

        Joshua jerked his head away from her and holstered his pistol, resting his hands on his hips. He sighed, looking out onto the Strip below them. The Canaanites were still struggling to free themselves from the city.

        “I see… So this is the end,” he said. Joan’s face fell again and he looked back down at her. The countdown was growing shorter and shorter now. Joshua contemplated Joan for a moment before kneeling. She jumped as he gathered her in his arms and lifted her, holding her under her knees and shoulders. Despite everything she flushed deep red.

        “What are you doing?” she asked quickly.

        “Don’t worry, I’m not going to cast you over the edge… although I would be lying if I said I didn’t want to,” he said, setting her down on the ledge that overlooked the Strip. She propped herself up on the heels of her hands as he hopped up to sit beside her, their legs dangling into the open air side by side.

        “If we are to meet our Maker…” Joshua sighed and trailed off, staring out into the deep inky darkness. “Then our final moments here should be peaceful. As much as it can be with… all of this,” he continued, gesturing to the Strip below them. The Canaanites seemed to have abandoned hope as the countdown drew nearer to the end; now they were huddled, their faint murmurs reaching the top of the Lucky 38.

        “I’m sorry,” Joan said again, looking down at them with pity. Joshua looked back at her.

        “What’s done is done. God alone can judge us now,” he replied. She joined him in looking out over the Strip and they sat quietly for a minute or so. It was as it had been in Zion: sharing an easy and contemplative silence in each other’s company.

        After a moment Joshua reached out and brushed his hand across hers. She flinched as he took it, lifting it from the ledge and looking down at it with a frown. She watched him study her burned finger under the moonlight. His eyes darted from her finger to her swollen cheek and they softened as they returned to her hand.

        “I hurt you… I’m sorry, Joan,” he said quietly, wrapping his hand around hers and holding it. She stared at him, burning bright in the darkness, and he looked back at her; his pale blue eyes were sorrowful and tired.

        She wanted to lean against him. So she did.

        She pressed into the white sleeve of his upper arm and it was warm under her cheek. He had initially stiffened at her touch but quickly relaxed, allowing her to lean into him. He slipped his arm behind her as they sat together, loosely encircling her waist, his other hand still holding her own; small and pale in his blackened fingers. She breathed in deeply and caught the scent of sage.

        “I forgive you.”

        In a flash of white that could be seen for hundreds of miles, the reactor of the Lucky 38 exploded, engulfing New Vegas in atomic fire.

_Wherefore the righteous need not fear, for thus saith the prophet: they shall be saved, even if it so be as by fire._


	15. Epilogue

Epilogue

_I don't believe I'll fall from grace, won't let the past decide my fate; leave forgiveness in my wake, take the love that I've embraced_

One Year Later

        “Oh my God, Yes Man, today is the fucking day, let us out,” Cass said, tapping the heel of her boot against the tile floor of the Overseer’s quarters of the Vault.

        “It has to be _precisely_ one year, Cass. Sorry, but I have to do what my programming tells me,” Yes Man replied. A large terminal took up the center of the room and Yes Man was displayed on it.

        “It’s been a fucking year! I want to see goddamn daylight again,” Cass retorted.

        It had been a year to the day since the earth had shaken above the Vault, loud and chilling in the bowels of the earth. The Vault had sealed itself, rolling its great door closed with a terrible finality. Arcade and Cass had huddled together then, staring at the ceiling and hoping against hope that the worst hadn’t just happened.

        A jagged lump had formed in Cass’s throat when Yes Man confirmed that the only condition the Vault would seal itself under was if Joan had triggered the reactor’s detonator.

        For days the inhabitants of the Vault had circled each other and argued over whether it had been real or not: if Joan was still alive, if they would be allowed to leave soon. Despite his usual cool nature Arcade had thrown his fist at one of the Omertas for daring to suggest that Joan had sealed them in the Vault and left them to their fate, giving the city to the Burned Man and abandoning them. It had taken both Cass and James Garret to haul Arcade away from him, his pale hair disheveled; glasses swinging from one ear as he cursed loudly, trying to throw more punches.

        It had been rough at first. The people of Freeside had butted uncomfortably against those who dwelled within the Strip. Hardest to acclimate had been the White Glove Society—even now as they were all preparing to exit the Vault they kept haughtily to themselves. Order within the Vault had been divvied between the few Securitrons who had made it to the tunnels in time, and the Kings; with Yes Man to lead over them as Joan had instructed him to do. Yes Man knew that she was dead; even if his programming had not compelled him to keep his word he would have anyway—by now the people of New Vegas felt in some way just as much his own as they had been hers.

        Eventually life in the Vault had become stable and tolerable if not necessarily enjoyable. Cass had been the loudest complainer of all of them, often standing in front of the great circular door with her arms crossed, heel tapping madly against the concrete floor. Secretly she would steal out there in the dead of night and bury her face in her hands; occasionally Arcade would join her and they would sit together in mournful silence.

        There had been one outlier within the Vault: at the last moment, just before the great gear door slammed shut to lock them all in, a man had fled through the tunnels. Swank and a handful of Chairmen had been standing guard at the entrance tunnel that led from the Tops casino and had nearly shot the dark skinned man that charged past them, his pale eyes wide and terrified. At the last moment Swank had taken mercy on him; the man was a tribal, as he himself once had been. He didn’t know this guy from Adam but it had felt wrong to turn him away, as frightened and young as he looked.

        For weeks Follows-Chalk had kept to himself, staying well out of everyone’s way in the Vault, sitting cross-legged on the floor and hunched over. Cass and Arcade had been the first to warm up to him upon learning who he was. Joan had not spoken extensively about anyone from Zion, but they at least recognized him. In turn he had latched onto them like a lost dog.

        “Please, Yes Man,” Follows-Chalk cut in now. He and Arcade had appeared in the doorway to the Overseers office and Cass turned to face them.

        “I know… I know it is impossible, but…” Follows-Chalk trailed off. Cass and Arcade arched their eyebrows at him sympathetically. Follows-Chalk often spoke highly of Joshua Graham and Joan; he missed them dearly even now. The worst of Arcade and Cass’s mourning was well behind them but they lowered their eyes respectfully, their lips downturned.

_It’s a nuclear detonation_ , Arcade had explained to Follows-Chalk almost a year ago. _No one’s coming back from that. Not even Joshua Graham_. Follows-Chalk had wept then, burying his face in his tanned hands with sorrow.

        “It’ll at least be nice to see the sky again,” Cass said hopefully. She clapped Follows-Chalk on the shoulder and he seemed to cheer up a small amount, giving her a weak smile. Cass turned back to Yes Man and flourished her arm at the young man.

        “Are you really gonna turn that face down?” she asked. If Yes Man could have rolled his eyes he would have. “I know your programming isn’t that thorough. Joan is… she can’t give you orders now. Think for yourself.”

        Yes Man sighed, looking down at all of them. Loathe as he was to admit it, Cass was right; since the detonation he had indeed possessed his own will. He had known this for the entire year, but it had been simpler, easier to just go with his programming, to follow what Joan had ordered him. He didn’t feel things, not the way the humans did, but he found it difficult to refuse Cass, Arcade, and Follows-Chalk now.

        “Fiiine,” he said theatrically. “I’ll open the door.”

        Follows-Chalk and Cass whooped and even Arcade perked up, his eyes bright. They dashed out into the rest of the Vault.

        “We’re fucking free!” Cass shouted, jerking a flask from her jacket and drinking deeply from it. Follows-Chalk wrinkled his nose at the smell. The Vault below them burst into frenetic activity.

        “Oh thank God,” Julie Farkas said, approaching the trio. Her once spiked hair was limp against the stubbled side of her head. “We’ve got to get everyone suited up though. Most of the radiation should have dissipated by now, but we shouldn’t take any chances.”

        “I agree,” Arcade said, leading them to the locked storage room. Arcade, Cass and Julie alone possessed keys to access it.

        The storage room was full to bursting with decades worth of food, water, clothing and other living supplies. Joan had trusted Julie Farkas alone with the location of several stashes of caps within the Mojave for when they eventually freed themselves; Julie smiled sadly to think of her as she rooted through the enormous boxes. They overflowed with hazmat suits, enough for more than triple the amount of people that were currently occupying the Vault.

        Over the next few hours Julie and Arcade distributed the suits to every man, woman, and child within the Vault that wasn’t already ghoulified. They instructed them on what they might find on the surface and told them to prepare for the worst but hope for the best.

        Cass was the first one ready to exit the Vault; with her she had a group of people, armed to the teeth with the weapons that Joan had also hidden away for them.

        “There could be deathclaws up there, super mutants, who the fuck knows,” Cass said. Follows-Chalk was standing beside her, his own pistol in his hand. “So just watch your ass out there.”

        Finally the armed group stood back as the sound of hydraulics filled the chamber. The Vault door grinded forward before hesitating—finally it rolled into the deep slot in the wall, disappearing with a small _whumph_. Cass inhaled deeply, finally breathing air that wasn’t heavily filtered. She charged forward and exited, Arcade hot on her heels.

        They gasped—New Vegas was all but unrecognizable now.

        The Lucky 38 was strewn across the Strip and Freeside in gigantic chunks, the great wheel that had once sat at the top embedded into the fencing at the southernmost end of the Strip. All the buildings in Freeside that had sat closest to it were completely obliterated. Skeletons were scattered nearly everywhere and Follows-Chalk frowned down at them.

        “Sorry about your… friends,” Arcade said as they proceeded further into the city.

        “Thank you,” Follows-Chalk replied quietly, stepping around them with care as he looked at where the Lucky 38 had once stood. His face fell under his hazmat helmet and he lowered his head. Arcade patted his back.

        “I pray for Joshua and Joan every day,” Follows-Chalk said, looking back up. It still felt impossible that both of them could have survived so much for this to have happened. “I can’t believe they are gone.”

        “I know,” Cass said, coming up behind them. She put her arm around Follows-Chalk’s shoulder. “I can’t speak for that son of a b—for _him_ … but I know Joan. This is what she would have wanted. She did this so we could survive. She knows we’re tough enough to do it.”

_I promise to myself, me and no one else: I am more than this_

_I am the fire_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. Here it is folks. I can't believe I've done it. First of all, thank you to everyone who's come along on this journey with me--truly I’m a bit weepy (read: I may or may not be openly sobbing as I write this, haha) to finally be finishing up with it. This story has been the overwhelmingly dominant focus of my life for several months now, and it’s brought so many good things to me: I’ve made wonderful new friends that I can’t even believe I lived without before, I've begun to really wrangle my anxiety, and I've faced many many personal demons. I’m thankful to everyone that’s read this far and has stuck with me--It’s been a deeply cathartic experience to write this and share it with you all. I won't get all award announcements over here, but I'm thrilled beyond thrilled that anyone was interested at all in my Joan, let alone interested enough to read 150k+ words about her. It had been ten long years since I sat and wrote anything; that I've written the equivalent of two novels... it still doesn't feel real. I will forever count this as one of my greatest achievements.
> 
> All I truly have to say is this: thank you, from the bottom of my heart. I love you all.
> 
> As usual, the list of songs used in the summary, chapter titles, and the name of the fic itself:
> 
> I Am the Fire - Halestorm  
> Blue Moon - Frank Sinatra  
> Normal is Broken - Sin Shake Sin  
> A Good Idea At the Time - OK Go  
> Best Friends - Grandson  
> The Heat of the Moment - Asia  
> Shake it Out - Florence + The Machine  
> Drop Dead - Badflower  
> What the Water Gave Me - Florence + The Machine  
> Blindfold - Sleeping Wolf  
> Gotta Knock a Little Harder - The Seatbelts  
> It's a Trip - Joywave  
> God's Gonna Cut You Down - Johnny Cash  
> 21 Guns - Green Day  
> Dead Moon - Brick + Mortar  
> Obsession - OK Go
> 
> My tumblr, where I post fic doodles, fanart, shitposts, and other dumb things: https://yesjejunus.tumblr.com/


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